“This is Mom’s Staff. It doesn’t really belong to me. But I know how to use it now.”
Then he released a second blast of Earthpower.
This detonation was as fierce as the force which had destroyed the stone-thing; but it was an entirely different kind of theurgy, a more natural magic. It hurt Coldspray and Grueburn, but it did not damage them. Instead it delivered violent healing, a ferocity of repair. He had learned too much too quickly: he was not capable of gentleness. And the Worm was feeding. Concussions spread through the substance of the world. Disruptions of Time mounted toward the last crisis of the Earth. He had to reach Kiril Threndor and Covenant.
In a moment, he was done. He stamped the Staff on the floor once because he had no words for what he felt. Then he gathered himself to follow Canrik.
Until he saw Rime Coldspray climb to her feet and test her limbs, trembling as if she were feverish—until he felt Frostheart Grueburn standing near him, and Canrik watching with open surprise—Jeremiah did not notice that the cave was full of warm light. He had taken it for granted—
The Staff felt like recognition in his hands. It sent out broad swaths of flame as kindly and soothing as sunshine. Its shaft shone with the cleanliness of healthy heartwood. Along its surface, Caerroil Wildwood’s runes remained, distinct as promises, but their meaning was no longer obscure. They were an offering and an appeal: they enabled and prayed.
To Jeremiah Chosen-son, the descendant of Sunder and Hollian in spirit if not in body, the Forestal’s script pleaded for restoration.
12.
You Are Mine
At the edge of Kiril Threndor’s high chamber, Thomas Covenant stood motionless, held by shock and fury while he scrambled to absorb what he saw.
Anger was not what he needed here: he knew that. If he had failed to see the truth for himself, he could have heeded High Lord Berek among the Dead. He may be freed only by one who is compelled by rage—Ire would mislead him when he absolutely had to be the master of himself.
But he could not control what he felt.
Well, hi, Dad. That was his son. His son, wracked like a plague victim by power and malice. You took your own sweet time getting here. His son with Lord Foul’s putrescent eyes.
The Despiser had claimed Covenant’s lost boy at last. Lord Foul had taken possession—
The sight set a spark to the driest tinder in Covenant’s soul. Between one breath and the next, he became conflagration; incandescent wrath. Wild fire flushed across his skin in waves like the urgent knot and release of his heart. Flames spat from his eyes, lashed out from his arms and chest. His vehemence cast argent through the diseased chiaroscuro of rocklight. Bright killing gathered like a blade in the scar on his forehead.
Berek had warned Linden. He had warned Covenant. But he had said nothing about the means by which Lord Foul might gain freedom.
“What’s the matter, Dad?” Roger glared as though his whole being had been consumed by scorn; as though he had been torn apart and put back together wrong. Denied anguish contorted his visage. At every moment, he looked more like a maimed thing, twisted beyond recognition. His right hand was sick lava, fuming and rotten. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
His plight demanded pity. For Covenant, pity was rage.
A step ahead of Covenant, Branl regarded the figure on the dais. He held Longwrath’s flamberge negligently, as if he had no further use for it. “Ur-Lord,” he remarked as though he had been studying a particularly uninteresting icon, “I now comprehend why I was unable to discern the presence of Corruption. His aura was both blurred by Kastenessen’s skurj-born theurgy and disguised by his human vassal. Here his evil is plain. Corruption has taken your son, or your son has given himself. We must oppose both or neither. We cannot harm the spirit while the flesh shields it.”
Hell and blood. Covenant had no answer for the Humbled. He had none for Roger. Wreathed in flame, he tightened his grip on the krill and started forward. Fissures marred the floor in front of him like the outcome of his anger; but he ignored them. Dizzying reflections and stalactites and tortured slabs of granite meant nothing to him. With every stride, he raised Loric’s dagger higher. The radiance of its gem filled his voice.
“Let him go,” he snarled at the Despiser. “This is between you and me. Leave him out of it.”
“Dad!” Roger feigned surprise. He feigned dismay. “You still don’t get it.” He lifted his inhuman hand to match the krill. A brimstone stench covered the reek of attar. The redder heat of magma daunted the rocklight. “None of this would have happened if you and that damn woman hadn’t interfered. All I wanted was the croyel—the croyel and Jeremiah—but you wouldn’t let me have them. If you had stayed out of my way, I wouldn’t be here.
“This is your doing, Dad. It’s the only choice I had left.”
“I don’t care,” Covenant retorted. “You did this to yourself. Nobody forced you. All you had to do was take pity on your mother,” on poor, deranged Joan, who had no defense, “and none of this would have happened.”
“Really?” drawled Roger. His grimace mimicked a sneer. “You actually think that? You should care. I’ll tell you why. Since you seem oblivious to what’s been going on, I’ll explain it.
“My mother”—he spat the word—“was useless. She couldn’t help me. She was just a distraction to keep you away from me. The croyel and Jeremiah were my way out. While I had them, I didn’t have to serve anybody. I didn’t have to care. But you took that away, you and that damn woman. You slammed the door on me, Dad. This is what I have left.
“I’m not going to die no matter what you do, and do you know why?” Pressures within Roger clawed terrible shapes across his face. Lurid fires filled his eyes. Threats dunted from his halfhand. “Lord Foul is going to take me with him. That’s the deal. I gave myself to him, and he’s going to give me eternity. We’re just waiting until the Arch crumbles enough to let us out. Then we’ll be gone. It’ll be like you and this whole disgusting place never existed.
“I’m letting him do what he wants because he’s going to save me!”
Halfway to the flawless dais, Covenant halted; froze on the verge of howling his fury. The pain in Roger’s voice stopped him. He could almost hear the hollowness of his son’s soul.
Branl was right. Of course he was. Covenant could not strike at Lord Foul without hitting Roger first. He would have to kill his son in order to hurt the Despiser—and he had already killed his son’s mother.
He needed a better answer. Somehow he had to set anger aside, swallow horror. Roger’s sarcasm and arrogance masked the truth. The young man was appalled by what he had done to himself.
“No,” Covenant snapped, wrestling for composure. “He won’t take you with him. Whatever he offered you won’t be what you think it is.” He had cloaked himself in fire and outrage as if they were a shield, but he could shrug them off his shoulders if he dared. If he could find the courage. “You’re scared, Roger. You’re too scared to think. You aren’t using your brain.
“You’re physical. Don’t you understand that? You’re mortal. Time is all you’ve got. It’s the only thing that makes life possible. Without it, you’re nothing. You’re just—”
The floor heaved, shaken by Roger’s impatience or the Worm’s feeding. Cracks groaned in the walls. The stalactites scattered rocklight and silver in pieces sharp as shards. Covenant lost his balance, staggered until Branl caught him.
“Well, duh,” Roger snorted. “Of course I’m physical. That’s why he needs me. That’s why I can trust him. He needs me to get rid of you.
“I’ll give you this, Dad. Lord Foul is afraid of you. You’ve surprised him too often when he thought he had you beat. But that won’t happen this time. That’s what I’m for. That’s why he made a deal with me. I’m going to make sure you don’t surprise him again.”
Resisting a rush of frenzy, Covenant shouted, “No! He’s just using you. He doesn’t need you. He can be as physical as he wants whenever he wants
.” Covenant had not forgotten the tangible impact of the Despiser’s contempt when Covenant had faced the Illearth Stone in Foul’s Creche. “But you can’t be as eternal as you want. You’re dross to him. You’re more than a hindrance, you’re a prison. He can’t escape the collapse of Time while he’s inside you. If he tries that, he’ll die when you do. He won’t get out unless he leaves you behind.
“And when he does, you won’t be able to follow him, and you sure as hell won’t be able to accompany him, because you’re just you. You aren’t made for eternity. You’re just a frightened man who can’t stand being afraid. Giving yourself to Foul isn’t hope, it’s panic.”
Roger was roaring like his hand, poised to strike; but Covenant did not pause. “You’re going to die like the rest of us,” he insisted. “No deal can save you. Foul can’t make you a god. He knows that as well as I do. If you can convince yourself otherwise, you’ve been serving him longer than you think.”
“No, Dad.” Tremors like hysteria shook Roger’s voice. Pain wrenched at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve got it all wrong. Lord Foul doesn’t lie. He promised I would stop being afraid. He promised what’s happening now is temporary. He promised I would never be in pain again.”
Sure, Covenant wanted to reply. It’s all true. You won’t be afraid. You’ll be dead.
But a sudden surge of power from the dais closed his throat. Abruptly Roger’s voice changed. “Enough.” It became the sound of crushed boulders, falling mountains. It had the depth and resonance of a tectonic upheaval. “That promise I will honor. I will put an end to your fawning. Now you will be silent. I will speak to this doomed wight who deems himself my foe.”
Involuntarily Roger bit down on his tongue. Blood leaked from his mouth. His eyes bled venom.
At the same time, behind or within or through Roger, Covenant saw another figure, a towering shape taller than Giants, mightier than the spectres of High Lords. Authority and rocklight limned the form; but within its outlines was nothing but absence, an emptiness like the chasm of the Lost Deep. The figure’s sole feature was its fanged eyes. They resembled Roger’s, yellow and bitter. But the ferocity in them, or the despair, was fiercer than Roger’s denied terror.
“Ur-Lord,” Branl warned unnecessarily. “Corruption manifests. Yet he also retains possession of your son.”
“Oh, good,” Covenant snarled at the Despiser. “I’m glad. Now I can talk to you directly.
“You really ought to be ashamed of yourself. You don’t need surrogates. You should have the decency to let Roger go. Or if you can’t manage decency, you should at least have the dignity. Using him just makes you look craven.”
Lord Foul expanded. He made himself too big to be confined by Kiril Threndor. Yet his lambent silhouette remained visible, as if he had superimposed himself on the rock.
“We are well met, Timewarden.” He did not shout, yet every word was a blast of ruin. “In times past, I have named you groveler, anile and foolish, but I now perceive that you have become worthy of me. Your death has been made certain. No exertion is required of me to assure it. Nevertheless I acknowledge that at last you merit extinction at my hand.”
“Sure.” Covenant readied the krill. As much as he could, he ignored Lord Foul’s fierce shape, concentrated on Roger. “Try it. I’m not going to surrender again. And I am done with restraint.”
The Despiser laughed like grinding stones. “Yet you have not forgotten folly. That pleases me.” His eyes and Roger’s bit at the air. “I find delight in your misbelief that you are potent to oppose me.
“Have you forgotten, Timewarden? Does mortal recall fail within you even now? I have assured you that you are mine. You have been my servant always, though you have twice refused submission. Each and all of your efforts to thwart me have conduced to my present triumph. Because you have dared to oppose me, I will be made free.”
Covenant shook his head. “Maybe you’re the one who’s forgotten. We’ve talked about this before. It goes both ways. If I’m yours, you’re also mine. Maybe I’ve always been yours, but I made you mine when I let you kill me.
“And apparently you’ve forgotten Linden. You tried to tell her the same thing. According to you, everything she does guarantees your escape. But she’s still here. She’s still doing things you didn’t expect and couldn’t imagine. She may even find a way to keep you here when reality falls apart.”
The Despiser swelled. He appeared to gather vehemence. But Covenant did not flinch.
“And haven’t you forgotten Jeremiah? Don’t you need him? Isn’t he essential to your deeper purpose? How can you even hope to use him when he has the Staff of Law?”
Lord Foul’s laughter was savage. It felt unanswerable.
“Indeed, the boy holds the Staff of Law. But my servant moksha has taken possession of him. Even now, he awaits my will. Through him, Law itself promotes my intent.”
Oh, hell! In spite of his fire, Covenant faltered. Moksha had Jeremiah? The walls of the chamber seemed to contract around him. Futures for which he had prayed faded like hallucinations. He had gambled on the boy: gambled and lost.
How would Linden bear it when she learned that her son served the Despiser?
At that moment, Roger struck. His halfhand hurled a bolt of incineration at his father.
Reflexively Covenant caught the blast with Loric’s krill; blocked it with the gem’s radiance and an outpouring of wild magic. Argent against laval crimson, flame against the savagery of molten stone, he fought to save himself.
But he hardly knew what he was doing. He lost track of Branl. The dagger bucked in his grasp: Roger’s force tried to tear it from his numb fingers. The coruscation of powers blinded him. Briefly Kiril Threndor inverted itself. He depended from the floor, felt himself falling toward the ceiling. Then the whole chamber reeled, giddy as vertigo.
He clung to the krill instinctively, sent his heart’s need like lightning through the blade’s cut jewel; floundered to survive.
His son’s might appalled him. Roger was stronger now. The severing of his human hand from Kastenessen had not weakened him. Nor had Kastenessen’s passing into the fane of the Elohim. Roger’s given fist retained the ravaging force of the skurj. And Lord Foul stood behind him or within him, supporting him.
Soon the krill would start to melt. It had to. Nothing mortal-made could endure Roger’s virulence, or Covenant’s wild response.
Upright beyond the ceiling and the stalactites, the breaking gutrock, Lord Foul watched. His eyes gnashed approval.
Blasts like magma knocked Covenant’s weapon from side to side. Feral heat chewed into his hands, gnawed at his arms. And his dead nerves betrayed him. They spared him from the worst of the pain, but they also weakened his grip. The hilt twisted. The skin of his fingers seemed slick as spilth. He could not hold.
He had to hold. The moment of his last crisis was upon him. Catastrophes burned in the bones of his forehead. Everything that he required of himself while life remained in his body depended on his ability to grip and hold.
Somehow he withstood Roger’s assault. He had more than the krill: he had wild magic. In some sense, he was white gold. The power possible for him was limited only by his humanity, his flesh and sinew and passion. Loric’s dagger was not melting. Even Covenant’s hands were not. They were preserved by the theurgies that saved and damned; by the contradiction of renewal and ruin that formed the keystone of the Arch of Time. As long as he did not let go—
But he could not do more; could not advance to threaten Roger or the Despiser. Together they were too strong. Roger’s savagery demanded his utmost, and his utmost was not enough.
And while he fought to withstand lava and malice, he gave no heed when the boulders against the walls opened themselves and became monsters.
Two of them. Three.
Apparently the Despiser was not satisfied. He desired Covenant’s death too much to let Roger fail.
The stone-things were vacancies. Despite their actinic auras, th
ey were only visible to ordinary sight. Branl did not sense them. His attention was fixed on Covenant’s struggle. One step at a time, he circled obliquely closer to the dais. But he was looking for an opening, a chance to attack while Covenant distracted Roger. He was not watching for other threats.
As massive as monoliths, and as silent, two of the creatures lumbered toward the Humbled from opposite sides. The third advanced on Covenant.
Covenant saw nothing except white fire and ruddy brimstone; felt nothing except the tearing heat of Roger’s theurgy. Roger had called him oblivious. He was oblivious now. There was no room in his heart or his mind for anything beyond the extremity of his need to hold on.
But Branl was Haruchai. He may have been as transfixed as Covenant; may have felt as desperate. Nevertheless he was a warrior to the bone, defined by combat. A heartbeat before the nearer stone-thing drew close enough to hit him, he saw it.
Whatever he thought or felt at that moment, he did not hesitate. Spinning away from the dais, he swung a two-handed cut at the side of the creature’s neck.
The clang of iron shivered among the stalactites. The flamberge bounced back, singing with stress.
The monster lurched to a halt. A third of its throat had been sliced open.
Branl needed an instant to regain control of his blade. Then he swung again.
This time, the creature folded to its knees. Slow as a sigh, it collapsed on its face and became dust.
Febrile with pain and hate, Roger fed the mounting holocaust. Through the glare, Covenant descried Roger’s features. Their agonized contortion seemed to cry out, wailing of needs and fears that surpassed sound, exceeded the firestorm of powers. Roger’s mouth shaped words which Covenant could not hear.
Dad, Covenant’s son seemed to be saying, help me.
Abruptly his own dread and hurt fell away. The burning of his hands lapsed into numbness. His grip steadied the krill against Roger’s onslaught. Wild magic rose to a pitch too acute for perception. Moksha Jehannum had taken Jeremiah. Covenant did not know what had become of Linden, but he knew that She Who Must Not Be Named was too strong to be defeated. And the Worm of the World’s End was feeding. Forces mightier than Covenant’s struggle shook Mount Thunder to its roots. He was losing everything that he had ever striven to preserve. Nevertheless he was not daunted. He still had something to fight for.