Against All Things Ending (25 page)

For an age of the Earth
, they had resembled the
Elohim
: hermetic and uninvolved, uninterested in anything that did not impinge upon their secret existence. But where the
Elohim
had cared for little except the contemplation of their own inherent beauties, the Viles had been makers of loveliness, glorying in the articulation of their powers; instinctively creative in spite of the sterility of their lives. And by that creativity, that impulse to reach beyond themselves, they had been wooed to consider the possibilities of a world which might surpass them.

Unlike the
Elohim
, they were able to imagine such things.

That their reaching outward had eventually exposed the Viles to the snare of self-loathing grieved Linden. But their tragedy was not germane to her present efforts. The Viles had devised their defenses at the outset of their search for significance; for a context in which to clarify their definition of themselves. Their magicks articulated the spirit in which they had begun their quest, not the outcome of that quest in wrath and ruin.

Immersed among tendrils, she found no trace of any ill. In the barricade, she descried only yearning.

And the implications of the snarled magicks culminated
there
: in that exact spot and specific strand within the general turmoil. She could not see it, hear it, feel it. Nevertheless she was familiar with the sensory entanglement of the Viles. Her own disorientation guided her.

After that, she forgot lurking evil; forgot the Harrow. Her companions on the far side of the Hazard did not affect her. She only needed to remember Stave’s steady hand on her shoulder, and she was ready. Secured by his unyielding fidelity, she unwound a fine thread of Earthpower from the Staff. Trusting the taste of sounds, the scent of blackness, the tactile seethe of meaning, she inserted her thread delicately among the tendrils.

Amid such ebony, her power resembled a shout of gold, a vivid ache of flame and violation. But she was careful: oh, she was careful. Her thread was little more than a wisp, a spun wish. She did not impose it on the flowing wards. Instead she insinuated it into the current and let the disguised structure of the barrier carry Earthpower into its heart. And when fine gold reached the vital nexus of the theurgy, she was more careful still. Hardly breathing—hardly daring to think—she wrapped her thread around the essential strand.

As she tightened Earthpower on that strand, she smelled the Harrow’s warnings, tasted the grip of Stave’s hand. Ominous hues thrummed in the stone where she stood. About her head like ravens flew glints of incarnadine and sulphur from the bridge, the stalactites, the cavern walls. But she ignored them. Here, at least, she was done with doubt.

Now or never. Dare or die. Jeremiah needed her.

Shod wood on granite, a quick stamp of the Staff tightened her thread. Her delicate effort of Earthpower became as clenched as crimson: it smelled as rigid as iron.

With it, she snapped the necessary tendril.

For one wild jolt of time, an instant of impact, illusions of blackness whipped around her like released hawsers; harried her like furies. Ruinous serpents fled, squirming, in all directions.

Then the portal stood open, and nacre radiance shone forth from the Lost Deep like a welcome, and Linden would have fallen if Stave had not caught her. She needed his strength to drag her confused senses back from the brink of chaos.

Briefly the light fumed like her strained breathing. She smelled its pastel hues shift and waver as though they were the scents of a distant feast. Then her perceptions relapsed to their ordinary dimensions. When the Harrow spoke, he had become human and explicable.

“That, lady—” He appeared to choke on surprise and wonder. When he continued, he sounded hoarse. “In plain justice, I acknowledge it. That was well done.”

But then he swallowed her effect on him: the effect of her ability to exceed him. More strongly, he stated, “Now I will have my Staff.”

Light rich with iridescence and shifting colors spangled among the stalactites, filling the high space above the Hazard with suggestions of glory.

Linden may have nodded. Or not: she was unsure. As soon as the Staff left her hand, she felt Kevin’s Dirt reassert itself. Almost immediately, it closed down on her like a lid; seeped into her like poison. Her sense of loss was so acute that she whimpered as if she had been beaten.

She had come to the end. There was nothing more that she could do.

Somewhere in the distance, Rime Coldspray announced, “Now, Swordmainnir. Linden Giantfriend has secured our passage. In caution and haste, we must bear our companions singly over the Hazard. The Masters will do what they must with Covenant Timewarden. The Ardent we leave to fend for himself. But the others we will convey safely.”

“Be comforted, Chosen,” Stave urged quietly. “You have succeeded where the Harrow failed. You have gained admittance to your son’s imprisonment. Soon we will seek him out. And when you have reclaimed him, the Harrow will translate us hence. Then the cruelty of Kevin’s Dirt will ease, restoring you to yourself.”

“Assuredly,” the Harrow pronounced, “I do not desire to linger.” He sneered the words, but his scorn was hollow. Linden had humbled him. “Already the caution of your companions heightens our peril. Only my oath precludes me from hastening while your sycophants dally.”

As Linden tried to gather herself, she found that her physical distress was waning. The illumination from the portal counteracted both stagnation and cold. There remained a chill in the air; an ache in her lungs. But she could breathe without shivering—and without the sensation that she was about to suffocate. Somehow the residual theurgy of the Lost Deep restored life to the atmosphere surrounding the Hazard.

And her sensitivity to the evil in the depths of the abyss was gone: an ambiguous boon. Numb to the bane’s state, she feared reflexively that it had already begun to rise. But perceptions of its malice no longer eroded her resolve.

She had surrendered her Staff for a second time, and wanted to weep. But sorrow, like regret, was a luxury that she could not afford: not here. When she had accepted the burden of herself from Stave, she turned to watch her friends cross the span.

Coldspray had nearly reached the foot of the bridge, and Onyx Stonemage had already passed the top of the arc with Liand in her arms. Behind them came the three Humbled holding Covenant securely among them. At the far end of the Hazard, the other Giants waited to carry Manethrall Mahrtiir, Pahni, Bhapa, and Anele into the light.

Liand had quenched his Sunstone, returned the
orcrest
to its pouch at his waist. His posture leaning against Stonemage’s cataphract implied weariness. Covenant appeared to be explaining something earnestly to Branl, Clyme, and Galt; but now the condition of his mind was hidden. The magicks of the Lost Deep did nothing to diminish Kevin’s Dirt. The demeaning smog was too recent to be affected by the abandoned lore of the Viles.

When Coldspray reached Linden, Stave, and the Harrow, she bestowed a grin like a laugh of pride and pleasure on Linden. Then she studied the progress of the rest of the company.

Now Latebirth and Mahrtiir were on the bridge. Behind the remaining Giants, near the back of the veined fan of obsidian, the Ardent had wrapped his ribbands around him as if he were curling into a ball. Cowering—

As soon as Stonemage set Liand on his feet, he hurried toward Linden; clasped her strongly. Then, frowning his concern, he stepped back to scrutinize her.

“Linden—” he began. “This blindness maddens me. I cannot perceive—Have your efforts or the wards harmed you?”

Frostheart Grueburn followed Latebirth, with Stormpast Galesend carrying Anele a safe distance behind her.

Linden shook her head. She had no other answer.

The Harrow chewed his lips and twitched his fingers, fretting impatiently. But he did not voice his frustration.

Cabledarm with Pahni. Halewhole Bluntfist with Bhapa.

Latebirth reached the shelf of the portal; but when her feet found secure stone, she did not release Mahrtiir—and he did not ask it of her. Without percipience, he was entirely blind; more helpless than Anele, who still slept cradled against Galesend’s armor. Behind his bandage, the Manethrall was more profoundly maimed than Cirrus Kindwind, the last of the Giants to essay the span. She had lost only a hand and forearm—

Still the Ardent remained wrapped around himself. In moments, Cabledarm and then Bluntfist rejoined their comrades; Kindwind passed the crest of the bridge—and the Ardent stood motionless, a parti-colored lump barely visible in the throat of the passage beyond him.

“Coward,” growled the Harrow distinctly. “Impediment. Fop. The will of the Insequent in all sooth. For this I have countenanced interference in my designs.”

Come on, Linden thought faintly. She felt as intangible as the Viles; as empty of effect as the Demondim against the Harrow. We have to rescue Jeremiah.
A terrible power lives here
.

Earlier the Ardent had appeared able to master his alarms, whatever they might be. Yet now he seemed unequal to them, even though Linden had removed the immediate danger. What did he really fear? His reluctance made her think that he had not told the truth about himself—or the whole truth.

As Kindwind put the Hazard behind her, however, and nodded to acknowledge her comrades, the fat Insequent stirred. Obscured by the shadow of the bridge, he began unwrapping strips of fabric from his apparel. Dim in the distance, he expanded as ribbands and hues were loosened until they formed a wide aura around him.

The flutter of his raiment resembled trembling, as timorous and uncertain as vapor.

Nevertheless he had found the reins that ruled his fears; or some other force compelled him. Abruptly he began to rise from the stone, lifted on swirling bands of cloth. And when he gained the air, colors as potent as incantations carried him forward. Floating within a cloud of ribbands, he moved onto the span.

Higher he rose, gaining momentum with very flourish of his raiment. At once lugubrious and majestic, he sailed upward until his head found the light. Some of the cloths supported him by pressing down on the bridge. Others anchored themselves among the stalactites. As he moved, they shifted to hold him aloft.

Perhaps he believed that by transporting himself in this manner he would avoid attracting the attention of the bane.

The Harrow barked a humorless laugh. “Truly the Ardent has been entrusted with the wishes and powers of the Insequent. His timidity and arrogance encompass every facet of our kind. Thus the folly of their presumption is revealed. The Earth would have been better served if they had not heeded their seers and augurs.

“Come!” he commanded Linden’s company imperiously. “This delay is mindless. It will not become wisdom by protraction.”

With a snort of contempt, he headed into the radiance of the Lost Deep.

No one followed him.

Jeremiah’s plight nagged at Linden like an untreated wound. She should have rushed past the Harrow; should have fled from interminable days of anguish and inadequacy toward her son. But she had spent too much of her frayed spirit against the wards: she felt unable to go on without Covenant and her friends; and none of them moved. Even Liand and Stave did not. Instead they all stood as if in attendance, watching the Ardent’s approach: the Swordmainnir with laughter in their eyes, the Masters impassively, Bhapa and Pahni in daunted wonder.

Only Covenant, Anele, and Mahrtiir did not regard the heavy Insequent in the air. And only Covenant spoke.

Peering past the rim of the abyss, he muttered, “She’s going to get bigger. Every time She eats. Every time somebody who doesn’t know or care how dangerous She is comes down here.”

He showed no sign of vertigo. He must have been reliving a conversation which had taken place long ago.

Limned in pink and ecru and subtle viridian, the Harrow paused to wait again, cursing.

Past the Hazard’s apex, the Ardent began his descent. And as he drifted forward, he gradually contracted his apparel so that he sank toward the bridge. Nearing the span’s base, his bound feet were a mere arm’s length from its surface. Softly as a bubble, he touched down as he reached the ledge.

His round face was flushed as though he had outrun the limits of his stamina. Sweat streamed from his forehead and cheeks, staining the neckbands of his garments. His eyes glared starkly, reflecting the pale illumination.

With his feet on the stone, he took two unsteady steps toward Linden. Then he stopped. Though he faced her, his gaze avoided hers.

“The will of the Insequent is a
geas
,” he panted. “I cannot refuse it, though it appalls my heart.” He may have been offering her an apology. “I must overcome myself. If I do not, I will fail you and my people as well as the living Earth.”

The Ironhand nodded. “
Geas
or bravery,” she replied, “it has sufficed. And perchance you will not be asked to dare such perils again. The way has been opened. When we have accomplished our purpose, you and the Harrow will be able remove us from these depths without confronting a second passage over that dire chasm.”

To Linden, she added, “Shall we go now in search of your son? Remaining here, we achieve naught.”

Linden did not respond. She felt hypnotized by the sweat on the Ardent’s face, the raw fright in his eyes. The sensation that she had come to the end clung to her. Some stunned part of her was still immersed in the toils of the wards. She did not know how to shake free of them.

But Stave took her by the arm. With Liand at her other shoulder, the former Master turned her toward the portal.

Seeing the Harrow outlined against the moonstone glow, with her Staff and Covenant’s ring clenched in his fists, Linden roused herself as if from a stupor. Though she felt emptied, like a broken cistern that could no longer hold water, she had surrendered too much to stop now. Not when the brown-clad Insequent was impatient to fulfill his promises.

Urged by the Giants, Stave and Liand encouraged her into the Lost Deep.