Against All Things Ending (28 page)

Strength enabled strength. Every increment of Earthpower that Liand summoned from the
orcrest
inspired him to summon more.

Following the Harrow, Linden climbed the stairs like a cresting wave.

If we forsake them—She was abandoning her other friends; abandoning Covenant. If she had heard the dangers of the palace described, she might have assumed that the intransigence of the
Haruchai
would protect them. The Giants and the Ramen were open to awe and joy: they had no defense. But Stave and the Humbled—

Yet the
Haruchai
also had no defense. They, too, were vulnerable to wonder and generosity, in spite of their wonted stoicism. How else had High Lord Kevin and the Council of Lords and Giants and Ranyhyn inspired the Vow of the Bloodguard?

How else had the Vizard humiliated them, if not by mocking the depth of their passions?

When Stave and the Masters regained themselves, they, too, would feel shame. Clyme and Branl and Galt and even Stave would judge themselves harshly.
Haruchai
did not forgive—

Nevertheless Linden did not turn back. Jeremiah came first. She would return for the rest of her companions when she no longer feared what the Harrow might do.

At the top of the staircase, heavy curtains hung like waterfalls over an arched opening in the wall: a way out of the chamber behind her; perhaps a way out of the palace itself. Thwarted by the magicks of the place, she detected no hint of the Harrow’s passage. But she had seen him part the curtains and vanish.

Facing water in an opaque brocade of gold and silver and refined tourmaline, she paused for an instant to secure her clasp on Anele, her connection to Liand. Then she led them through the liquid fabric.

Beyond that barrier, she found that she had indeed left the ambit of the palace. At once, the sensation that she was immersed in water and theurgy left her, and her nerves extended their percipient reach. A narrow corridor pierced the gutrock crookedly ahead of her. Like all of the Lost Deep’s stone, it had been refined to a lambent sheen: the passage was filled with light like an invitation. Here, however, the illumination did not mask the lingering scent of force and flame from the Staff of Law, or the faint emanations left behind by the Harrow’s own sortilege.

Almost running, Linden headed into the corridor with Anele and Liand.

The hall curved and twisted, insidious as a serpent. Other passages or chambers branched out on both sides, but she ignored them. Sensing the Harrow, she was certain of her way. Liand breathed raggedly, worn down by his earlier efforts beyond the Hazard; but his strides were steady. Anele displayed his familiar, unlikely stamina. And Linden was sustained by images of Jeremiah. She believed that her son was near. If the Insequent did not forswear his oath—

One sweep and angle and opening after another, the way created the illusion of a maze; a place in which lives and intentions were lost. Yet Linden felt no secrets hidden in the walls, no concealed intersections, no disguising glamours. If the Viles, or Roger and the
croyel
, or
moksha
Raver had left snares to baffle her, she could not perceive them.

And the aura and inferences of the Harrow’s passing remained steady.

Then Linden, Anele, and Liand rounded a corner. Abruptly the corridor emptied them into a round chamber shaped like a dome, a sphere cut in half by its pristine floor.

Here again, she could not think of the space as a cavern or cave. Its dimensions were too perfectly symmetrical to be a natural formation. Like the floor, the walls as they curved upward to meet over the precise center of the space were nitid with the Lost Deep’s characteristic moonstone glow. The chamber was not as large as the other halls which she had entered and departed: it seemed almost intimate by comparison, although it could easily have held the Swordmainnir and several score of their comrades. Still it made Linden feel small to herself.

Its effect on her was not diminished by the fact that it had been flawed by time or theurgy.

The floor itself, like the four gaps in the walls, betrayed no sign of damage or alteration. The opening through which she and her companions had arrived was mirrored by one directly opposite her. Two others stood equidistant around the walls. Fashioned with the accustomed exactitude of the Viles, these corridors may have indicated the points of an arcane compass.

But in the center of the ceiling hung a raw lump or knob of rock that resembled travertine, crude and unreflective; porous; dark as a stain against the lit stone. And from that misshapen clot, eight arms or ridges of the same stigma ran down the walls as though they had been deposited by eons of dripping water.

The air was warmer than it had been elsewhere in the Deep. It suggested hot springs thick with minerals.

Yet time and water could not have caused those formations. Four of them reached straight toward the openings in the walls, where they branched like arches to delineate or emphasize the corridors. The other four clung to the walls at exact intervals between the openings. And when the darkness of each ridge or branch touched the floor, it merged into the smooth surface and stopped as if it had been cut off. As if it were no longer needed.

Natural forces would have left residue splayed across the floor. And the increased warmth: that, too, was not natural.

Linden recognized the source of the heat. She knew it well.

The increasing accuracy of her health-sense assured her that the knob and arms of calcareous rock were more recent than the chamber which they marred: far more recent. They must have been deposited within the past year, probably within the past season.

They looked fragile—so porous that she might have crumbled them with her fingers—but she already knew that they were strong enough for their purpose. She had expected to find something like them here, although she could not have imagined what form they would take.

Then free my son
, she had demanded of Infelice.
Give him back to me
.

They will not
, the Harrow had answered her.
They can not
.

The travertine was the construct that masked Jeremiah’s presence from the
Elohim
: from Infelice and Kastenessen as well as from Esmer. The use that Roger and the
croyel
had made of Jeremiah’s talents protected her son from every eldritch perception except the Harrow’s more oblique and mortal knowledge—and perhaps from the strange lore of the ur-viles and Waynhim.

The Demondim-spawn could not have brought her here. They traveled in ways that she could not emulate. Perhaps they had tried to tell her where to look; but Esmer had refused to translate their speech.

Near the center of the chamber stood the Insequent. He held the Staff of Law braced on the stone near his feet and Covenant’s ring raised over his head. But he made no attempt to wield those powers: not yet. Instead he glared into the acrid yellow gaze of the
croyel
, plainly trying to swallow the deformed creature’s will and power with his bottomless eyes.

The creature still clung to Jeremiah’s back: a hairless monster the size of a child, scrawny and insatiable. Its fingers gripped his shoulders while its toes dug into his ribs, rending his flesh like claws. Avidly its fangs chewed the side of his neck to drink his blood, devour his mind. Its virulent eyes implied howling and shrieks. But it did not exert its strength against the Harrow. Instead it appeared to revel in defying him.

Between those antagonists, Jeremiah stood slumped as if he were nothing more than the
croyel
’s puppet: a means to define and transport the creature’s malice. His muddy, disfocused gaze regarded the floor with the blank stare of a youth who had lost hope long ago. From his slack slips, a small dribble of saliva ran into the nascent stubble on his chin. His arms hung, useless, at his sides. His fingers dangled as though they were empty of import; as though they had never held anything as ordinary and human as a red racecar.

He was an abused boy whose only escape from the prison of his maimed mind was through the
croyel
’s ferocity.

But he was alive.

9.

Hastening Doom

In time you will behold the fruit of my endeavors.

Linden could hear Lord Foul as if he stood beside her, laughing like a scourge.

If your son serves me, he will do so in your presence
. Jeremiah had done so under
Melenkurion
Skyweir. He did so now. Or the
croyel
used his unresisting body and trapped mind as a conveyance for its harsh appetites. Confident of its dominion, the creature faced the Harrow with mockery in its cruel eyes.

If I slaughter him, I will do so before you
.
Think on that when you seek to retrieve him from me
.

Dull-eyed and vacant, Jeremiah remained on his feet only because the
croyel
compelled him. The false or transmuted alertness and excitement that Linden had seen in her son’s face before she had exposed the succubus was absent. Every sign that he might be capable of outward consciousness was gone.

If you discover him, you will only hasten his doom
.

While the Harrow strove to master the
croyel
, and received only contempt, Linden stood helpless, transfixed by dismay.

—
this I vow
.

Indirectly, indirectly, the Despiser had urged her to awaken the Worm of the World’s End by resurrecting Covenant. Lord Foul had provided the circumstances and the impetus that goaded her damaged heart. By dismay and desperation, he had encouraged her to surrender her powers so that she would be brought here; so that she would be forced to bear witness and do nothing. So that her futility in the face of Jeremiah’s need would break her at last.

The Despiser had underestimated her. Again. He had failed to grasp the scale of her willingness to suffer for her son’s sake, or the acuity of her flayed perceptions. He did not know that she could hear vast pain masked by Lord Foul’s exaltation.

“Linden?” Liand panted. “Is
this
your son’s plight? You have described it, but words—” He strained for language. “Linden, that creature—that monster—! What it does to your son is an abomination.”

As if she were clenching her own fist, Linden felt his hand tighten on the
orcrest
. Fierce with ire, he began to draw forth more Earthpower, and still more. If the white purity of the Sunstone could be used as a weapon, he intended to assail the
croyel
. His desire to strike was as vivid as a shout.

His spirit was too clean to countenance atrocities: a handicap which she did not share.

She meant to stop him. She needed only the health-sense that his efforts supplied. She did not intend to let him sacrifice himself.

Before she could forestall the Stonedownor, however, the
croyel
raised Jeremiah’s maimed hand. Undisturbed by the avid depths of the Harrow’s eyes, the creature caused Jeremiah to gesture negligently in Liand’s direction.

Warm as breath, a sudden wave of magic crashed into the young man.

It swatted him away; flung him hard against one of the dark ridges of travertine. The impact nearly shattered Linden’s concentration: it may have shattered his bones. Blood red as an arterial hemorrhage burst from his mouth, splashed incrimination onto the luminous floor. Flopping like a doll stuffed with cloth and cotton, he sprawled face-first to the stone.

Apparently the
croyel
perceived a greater threat in Liand—or in
orcrest
—than in the Harrow. Or in Linden.

Instantly inert, the Sunstone fell from Liand’s grasp; rolled away. A stride or two beyond his fingers, it came to rest.

At once, Linden’s health-sense evaporated, denatured by her proximity to the source of Kevin’s Dirt. Without transition, she was blinded to the truth of Jeremiah’s anguish and Liand’s injuries and the
croyel
’s evil.

At the same time, Anele wrenched free of her. His mouth stretched in a soundless wail as he turned; fled back into the corridor toward the palace.

Linden let him go. He could not aid her now. Perhaps his reappearance among the rest of her companions would serve to disenchant them.

They would take too long—

Part of her yearned to rush to Liand’s side; gauge the extent of his wounds; help him as much as she was able. Part of her burned to leap past him and snatch up the Sunstone, hoping that its touch would restore some measure of her percipience. But she compelled herself to remain motionless. The
croyel
could crush her as easily as it had broken Liand. She had no defense.

She knew what to do. She had already made her decision. But she had to wait for the right moment.

The moment when both the Harrow and the creature would be distracted.

Where was Roger? Surely Thomas Covenant’s son would not have left the
croyel
and Jeremiah unguarded? Linden was counting on that. Alone, the power of Kastenessen’s hand was not enough for Roger. Nor were the complex magicks of the
croyel
. Like the creature, Roger required Jeremiah’s supernal talents. Without them, Roger and the
croyel
would not survive the destruction of the Arch of Time to
become gods
.

Gradually the contest between the Harrow and the
croyel
eased or shifted. Linden saw the change in the loosening of the Insequent’s shoulders, the adjustment of his posture. He must have decided to try different tactics.

“Do you dare me?” His voice held only triumph despite the scorn gleaming in the
croyel
’s eyes. Beside Jeremiah’s vacancy, he was a figure of sculpted muscle, graceful garb, and dominance. “You see that my flesh and bone are no greater than those of the youth whom you possess. Therefore you conclude that I am a lesser being than yourself. Yet you are sorely mistaken. To your cost, you refuse the consummation of my gaze. Do you not perceive that I have learned the uses of the Staff of Law? And soon I will wield the incomparable forces of white gold. At that moment, my knowledge and magicks will become
perfection
.

“Doubtless your strengths are ancient and potent. Nonetheless you cannot stand against me.”

Briefly the creature lifted its fangs from Jeremiah’s neck to grin at the Harrow. Then it resumed its dire feeding.

“Nor can you hope for aid here,” the Insequent continued. “The defense which you have devised blocks foe and friend alike. Even the halfhand who has been your companion and ally cannot broach this warded chamber.”

Cannot—? Linden’s chest tightened. The Harrow may have been telling the truth. Before the battle of First Woodhelven, he had pierced the glamour with which Roger had veiled himself and his Cavewights. Surely the Harrow would have recognized the danger if Roger had been present?

But when Roger had arrived to attack the Harrow and Esmer and Linden, he had left the
croyel
behind. He had approached and struck without the
croyel
’s support, the
croyel
’s theurgy.

Nevertheless the deep soil of the Harrow’s disdain matched the creature’s malign gaze.

“Oh, I do not question that he is aware of your location, as the
Elohim
are not. Indeed, I am certain that he participated in your choice to conceal yourself here, and that he assisted your passage hither. Yet when you erected the barrier which prevents the perception of the
Elohim
, you excluded him as well. Kastenessen’s hand has grown into him. It has become native to his blood. And Kastenessen is
Elohim
. Thus your own cleverness delivers you to me.

“No other power will redeem you. You are
mine
.”

With a flourish of the Staff, the Harrow sent sunshine flame blossoming into the dome.

Unintentionally he renewed a portion of Linden’s health-sense.

Roger had told Linden that Kastenessen craved only the destruction of his people. She believed that. Kastenessen’s pain ruled him. He had no other desires. Through Esmer, he had opposed the Harrow before. He would do so again, if he could—but only because he sought to prevent the Harrow from saving the
Elohim
. He did not want Jeremiah’s gifts for his own use.

Roger and the
croyel
had other ambitions.

Mimicking the Harrow’s display in its own fashion, the creature gestured with Jeremiah’s halfhand again.

Linden flinched. She expected an invisible blow which would deprive her of use and name and life. But the
croyel
’s might was not directed at her. She felt none of its energy in the chamber at all.

Instead she sensed a summons.

Immediately children like incarnations of acid began to emerge from the other openings in the wall.

She knew them too well. They were
skest
: creatures of living vitriol, deformed and corrosive; deadly despite their small stature. Lit from within by a gangrenous green radiance, as if they were the impossible offspring of the Illearth Stone, they destroyed their foes by dissolving mortal flesh, reducing bones and sinews to macerated puddles. At one time, they had served the lurker of the Sarangrave. But more recently, Linden had seen them tending Joan. Trapped in freezing and hornets and madness within a
caesure
, Linden had watched acid-children care for Joan’s physical needs while
turiya
Raver toyed with the frail woman’s derangement. Linden had not expected to encounter them here.

Now she guessed that the
skest
performed a similar service for Jeremiah, nourishing the
croyel
through her son’s possessed body. In effect, they kept Jeremiah alive for the creature’s sake—and for Lord Foul’s.

But the
skest
were also the
croyel
’s defenders. They issued from their corridors in numbers that seemed great enough to overwhelm the Harrow.

Studying him as closely as she could, Linden believed that he had not yet found a way to evoke wild magic from Covenant’s ring. But with the Staff, the Insequent could wield a flail of burning Earthpower. He would fight to protect himself.

If one of the
skest
touched him, just one—Would the magicks which had preserved him from the Humbled and Stave suffice here? Linden did not think so. He was mortal: as human as Linden and Jeremiah. His power to ward off plain blows might not guard him against the more fatal touch of emerald corrosion. And
skest
were not Demondim—or Demondim-spawn. He could not simply unbind them from themselves.

And while he defended himself from them, the
croyel
could strike whenever it wished.

Clearly the Insequent recognized his peril. He retreated a few steps from Jeremiah and the
croyel
; surrounded himself with flames. His jaws chewed curses as he clenched Covenant’s ring. Linden felt his extremity as he strove to bring forth argence.

But he was not its rightful wielder.

Neither was she. Yet Covenant’s ring belonged to her far more than it did to the Harrow. Otherwise she could not have saved herself and Anele from the collapse of Kevin’s Watch.

There were scores of
skest
in the chamber. More came behind them. Some of them burned like kindling when the Staff’s fire caught them: they slumped into acrid pools that frothed and spat, gnawing chunks out of the granite floor. But they were many, and they kept coming. Soon they would be enough to encircle the Harrow’s defenses.

Enough to threaten Linden: enough to kill her where she stood; or to drive her away from her son.

Liand would die in quick agony.

Now, she thought. The time was now.

At last, she moved.

She could not afford to fail.

She had regained only a fraction of her health-sense; but it sufficed to guide her. The
croyel
had struck Liand with terrible force. He had hit one of the calcified arms of the warding construct: hit it hard. When she scanned the ridge, she saw that the impact had weakened it.

She dashed to that spot, hoping that the
skest
would ignore her.

The travertine was porous and fragile: she was certain of it. And in that one place, it had been damaged. Nonetheless it was stone. It did not crumble easily. Stooping, she gripped the rimose deposit; dug her fingers in among its bulges and knags until her nails tore and her skin bled; pulled at the ridge until the flesh of her palms was shredded.

The stone held.

Behind her, the Harrow roared curses and invocations in alien tongues.
Skest
burned like pitch, eating away the perfection of the floor. Again the
croyel
raised his mouth from Jeremiah’s neck to bare its teeth at the Insequent. The creature’s glee stung the back of Linden’s neck like the first caress of acid.

Her hands were not strong enough.

Part of her wept at her weakness. But that part belonged to the Linden Avery whom she had left behind under
Melenkurion
Skyweir. The Linden Avery who had stood with Caerroil Wildwood and the Mahdoubt on Gallows Howe did not hesitate.