Against All Things Ending (46 page)

If his numb touch gave her any comfort or aid, it lay beneath the surface, hidden.

The Manethrall confronted Covenant squarely. “I do not fear for her, Timewarden. I fear you.”

Covenant waited. He was not surprised: he feared himself. His new humanity had too many flaws.

“I acknowledge,” Mahrtiir continued, “that you are mysterious to me. You surpass my comprehension. For that reason, among others, my fealty belongs to the Ringthane rather than to you.”

Covenant started to say, I know, but Mahrtiir did not pause.

“Nonetheless I am able to grasp that the spectre of High Lord Elena has been devoured by She Who Must Not Be Named.”

“Yes.”

“She is your daughter.”

Covenant ached with memories like old wounds. His grief rose like keening. But he kept it to himself. “Yes.”

“The deed of her undoing was yours. Do not protest to me that you merely requested Anele’s sanity and service. I will not hear you. I grant that you did not or could not foresee what would follow.” The Manethrall seemed to bite down on each word, restraining an impulse to shout. “Still the deed was yours.”

Covenant faced Mahrtiir as steadily as he could. “Yes.”

Like an indictment, Mahrtiir proclaimed, “The Waynhim teach that ‘Good cannot be accomplished by evil means.’ I do not fault you for removing the
krill
from Andelain. You enabled the capture of the Ringthane’s son. Nor do I question your valor. Your hands are proof enough that you do not fear to bear the cost of your choices. But for millennia, from the moment of her conception until her last fall beneath Gravin Threndor, you have brought only ruin upon your daughter. Upon your
daughter
, Timewarden.

“Therefore I fear you.”

Because he ached, Covenant objected, “We’re still alive—”

The Manethrall cut him off. “By evil means. Do you name the expenditure of your daughter good? The Ringthane would not do so. Nor would she sacrifice her son for any purpose.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Covenant admitted. “I wouldn’t either. He’s still alive.

“But,” he insisted, “I did not know what was going to happen.” He needed to be clear about this. He already had more burdens than he could carry. “Sunder and Hollian picked Elena. I didn’t.

“And I’m not done.”

“Not done?” Mahrtiir barked a humorless laugh. “Do you intend to confront She Who Must Not Be Named again, for High Lord Elena’s sake?”

“Don’t put it past me,” Covenant growled. Linden’s weight against his chest was an accusation that he did not mean to deny. Her soiled shirt, plucked and torn, had endured as much as his old T-shirt and jeans. In his time, he, too, had worn stains that should have guided him. “I’ve done more harm than I can stand. I always have. But
we’re still alive
. That means we still have a chance.” More quietly, he finished, “
I
still have a chance.”

Abruptly Branl jumped down from the edge of the gully to approach Covenant and Mahrtiir. “We will hear no more of this, Manethrall,” he stated in a tone like polished obsidian. A threat—The loyalty of the Humbled ran deep. “You are unjust, both to the Unbeliever and to the Dead.”

Mahrtiir’s bandage emphasized his scowl. “How so?” He seemed to need conflicts. His sense of his own uselessness required an outlet.

“That the crime of High Lord Elena’s conception was costly to her,” answered Branl, “cannot be denied. Yet the ur-Lord may not be held accountable for the use which she made of her life. The fault of her chosen deeds cannot be excused by the circumstance of her birth and parentage. She elected to summon Kevin Landwaster from his rightful place among the Dead. The ur-Lord did not. Her subsequent enslavement by Corruption ensued from her own folly, not from any choice or desire of the Unbeliever’s.

“That her spirit has not served Corruption from that time to this was the ur-Lord’s gift to her. Aided by powers invoked by a Forestal from the Colossus of the Fall, he ended her thrall when she was unable to free herself.”

Covenant had not forgotten his physical life. He remembered that he had released Elena by destroying the original Staff of Law. If he had not done so, she would have killed him. But in turn, that act of desperation had facilitated Lord Foul’s return to strength and the horrors of the Sunbane.

Apparently evil could be accomplished by good—or at least necessary—means.

The Manethrall’s jaws worked, chewing possible retorts. Before he decided on a response, however, Covenant told Branl, “No. Mahrtiir is right. Elena doesn’t deserve more torment. We all make choices, and none of us can guess how they’ll turn out. But we have to live with the consequences anyway. I didn’t know what would happen when I asked Anele to speak to the Dead, but that doesn’t make me any less responsible.”

“And did the Dead not choose?” countered Branl. “Did Elena Law-Breaker herself not choose?”

Covenant nodded. “They did. She did. And she paid for it. She’s paying for it right now. But that doesn’t change what
I
did. I asked for help. My part in this doesn’t go away just because I didn’t choose the kind of help I got.”

As Covenant spoke, Mahrtiir sagged. His anger became an air of recognition and defeat. He remained silent while Branl searched for a weakness in Covenant’s reasoning. But when Branl found none, the Manethrall said unsteadily, “I cry your pardon, Timewarden. I am answered. The judgments of these self-maimed
Haruchai
do not sway me. But I discern now that I have misdirected my ire.

“In sooth, I have no cause to accuse you. I do so only because the Lost Deep has deprived me of myself. I have learned that I am naught, unfit to serve either the Ringthane or the Ranyhyn. Such knowledge is bitter to me. I do not bear it with grace.”

I know, Covenant thought sadly. Mahrtiir’s pain was only one of many needs for which Covenant had no anodyne.

Branl looked at the blinded man; raised an eyebrow in inquiry. After a moment, he said, “We do not comprehend. How is it that any mere place can diminish a Manethrall of the Ramen? You are who and what you are, unlessened in strength, forethought, or valor by the loss of ordinary sight. Nor have you been diminished by impenetrable stone or ancient banes. To think otherwise is to heed the blandishments of Corruption.”

In a motion too fluid for Covenant to follow, Mahrtiir’s fighting garrote appeared in his hands. Through his teeth, he asked, “Do you accuse me, sleepless one? Do you deem that my perception of myself betrays this company, or the Ringthane, or the Land?”

Anticipating a provocative rejoinder from Branl, Covenant groaned.

However, Branl answered flatly, “I have not said so. Nor was that my meaning. You are a Manethrall of the Ramen. For their devotion to the Ranyhyn, the Manethralls have been esteemed by every
Haruchai
since the time of the Bloodguard. Though you revile our Mastery, you cannot question my word. If any accusation stands between us, it arises from within you, not from any judgment of the Humbled, or of the Masters.”

In spite of his numbness, Covenant continued stroking Linden’s hair. “He’s telling the truth, Mahrtiir. You know that. He’s
Haruchai
. He doesn’t lie.

“I understand feeling useless. But I’ve been weaker than you are. When I first came to the Land, I clung to the idea I was helpless. I
counted
on it. I didn’t want to carry the load that comes with being able to stand for something. It took me a long time to get over needing to believe I’m weak.”

He had learned that only the damned can be saved.

“Of course,” he conceded, “I had help. A
lot
of help.” Atiaran. Mhoram. Bannor. Saltheart Foamfollower. Triock. Even Lena, whom he had raped and abandoned. “But so do you. And you still have a long way to go.” Covenant had said that once before, although he no longer remembered why. “You still have to come back.”

The muscles of Mahrtiir’s jaw knotted. Cords of tension defined his neck. As if he were delivering or receiving a blow, he rasped, “Master, I find that I must cry your pardon also. If joy is in the ears that hear, as the Giants avow, not in the mouth that speaks, then blame and rue must likewise be found in the ears that hear. Condemning the Masters for their judgments, I have vaunted myself worthy to judge them. The fault is mine.”

Branl considered the Manethrall briefly. His mien revealed nothing as he acknowledged Mahrtiir’s apology with a bow.

Mahrtiir faced Covenant again. “If I am granted an occasion to heed your counsel, Timewarden, I will do so.”

Then he walked away as if he hoped to conceal his self-recrimination by turning his back.

With a delicate
Haruchai
shrug, Branl rejoined Clyme and Stave on the rim of the gully, standing guard.

For a few moments, Covenant studied the strict set of the Manethrall’s shoulders. He ached for Mahrtiir: hell, he ached for everybody. Maybe, he mused sourly, it was a good thing that most of his former memories lay in ruins. Maybe it was crucial. If he could have remembered
why
he had spoken to Mahrtiir on the plateau of Revelstone—or to Liand, or to Pahni and Bhapa—he might not be able to resist the impulse to explain himself. Doubtless Mahrtiir would be comforted to hear that he still had an important role to play. But the knowledge would shape his decisions, affect everything about him. Directly or indirectly, it would affect the whole company. And Covenant would be responsible for the change. Linden and her friends would be guided by insights which they should not have been able to glean, except by their own efforts. In effect, they would no longer be truly free.

But Covenant had been spared by his imposed mortality, for good or ill. He was in no danger of saying too much—

Hellfire, he muttered in silence. No wonder only people like Roger and creatures like the
croyel
wanted to be gods. The sheer impotence of that state would appall a chunk of basalt—if the basalt happened to care about anything except itself. Absolute power was as bad as powerlessness for anybody who valued someone else’s peace or happiness or even survival. The Creator could only make or destroy worlds: he could not rule them, nurture them, assist them. He was simply too strong to express himself within the constraints of Time.

By that standard, forgetfulness was Covenant’s only real hope. No matter how badly he wanted to remember, he needed his specific form of ignorance; absolutely required it. Nothing less would prevent him from violating the necessity of freedom.

By slow degrees, sunshine crested the rim of the gully. It reached Covenant’s face: a touch that might be a curse in this desiccated region. Still in shadow, the Giants slumbered among the sand and stones and sparse grass of the gully-bottom. Liand and Anele slept. Galt gripped Jeremiah’s shoulder, holding the
krill
at the
croyel
’s throat. The boy stood as if he were too vacant to feel thirst or fatigue. The
croyel
’s mouth moved, perhaps yearning for Jeremiah’s neck, perhaps shaping some invocation or summons. Above the rest of the company, Stave and Galt’s comrades stood like statues, carved and voiceless.

Covenant shifted so that his eyes avoided the sun. Soon he would have to move Linden into the shade of the boulder. But shade was not water. It would not shield her for long.

She had been through too much: Covenant understood that. And when she found her way back to consciousness, she would judge herself harshly for her temporary escape. She would believe that she had failed her son and her friends and the Land. But he knew better. Her absence was the opposite of failure. Like Jeremiah in the aftermath of his maiming by fire and Despite, she had found a way to survive when every other form of continuance had become unendurable.

And Covenant grasped a truth that she might not recognize, even though she had experienced it before. When she returned to herself, like a butterfly she would unfurl different strengths than those which she had possessed earlier. She would be an altered woman. Even she might not know what she had become.

It was conceivable that her sense of inadequacy would shape her into an empty vessel fit only to be filled with despair. But he refused to believe that of her.

I do not fear for her, Timewarden
.

In this, as in other things, Covenant sided with Mahrtiir.

Avoiding the direct stare of the sun, he watched Linden’s face for signs that she might be ready to awaken.

She looked ashen and abused, almost drained of blood. The fine lines of her features had become a kind of gauntness. At intervals, the muscles at the corners of her eyes were plucked by pains too intimate for his ordinary sight to interpret. Beneath their lids, her eyes flinched from side to side, wincing at nightmares. Occasionally her fingers twitched as though she sought to grasp her Staff. Her lips shaped words or whimpers like pleas for which he had no answer.

The longer she remained unconscious, the more she would be changed by the experience of hiding among her dreams.

The sun heated his cheek. When he blinked, his eyes felt raw, abraded by the effects of convulsions and rank minerals deep under Gravin Threndor. Dehydration blurred his vision. He thought that the time had come to move. Then he thought that he would wait for Bhapa and Pahni a little longer. Linden lay like a millstone against his chest; but he was reluctant to disturb her.

Hardly aware that he had reached a decision, he began to talk. Bowing his head, he murmured her name softly. Almost whispering, he tried to find words that would reach her.

“I love you, Linden,” he said like a sigh. “Do you know that? So much time has passed, you might find it hard to imagine. But it’s true. I’ve spent three and a half thousand years remembering how much you mean to me—and wishing I’d done a better job of telling you.

“That’s why I kept trying to warn or advise you, when I should have kept my damn mouth shut. I didn’t know how else to tell you I love you. If you’ve made mistakes—which I do not believe—you can’t blame yourself. You only made them because I couldn’t leave you alone.”