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Against All Things Ending: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant

Compelled step by step to actions whose consequences they could neither see nor prevent, Thomas Covenant and Linden Avery have fought for what they love in the magical reality known only as "the Land. Nevertheless they must resist the ruin of all things, giving their last strength in the service of the world's continuance.

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Also the Ranyhyn are restive. I deem that they are eager to rejoin our companions, and that they discern a need for haste. Long before Linden was ready to release him, Jeremiah withdrew. For a moment, he gazed at her with gleaming in his eyes like the stars on the foreheads of the Ranyhyn.

Then he turned toward Stave. Linden was too full of other emotions to be surprised when Jeremiah reached out and hugged the Haruchai. But when Jeremiah stepped back, the former Master lifted his eyebrow as if he were mildly perplexed. Jeremiah nodded. He let himself be killed so Anele could get that monster off my back. So Anele could give me all this power. Linden watched the boy with a kind of awe.

Some part of him must have remained conscious throughout the long years of his dissociation. Otherwise he would not have been able to emerge so swiftly—or to know so much. As if in confirmation, the Ranyhyn tossed their heads, and Hynyn trumpeted an imperious acknowledgment.

From among them, Khelen came forward and nudged Jeremiah, apparently urging the boy to mount. Jeremiah, Linden tried to say; but she had no voice. She did not know where to begin. Too many aspects of her relationship with her son had taken on new meanings. Then he turned back to his mother. His grin fell away. With his halfhand, he pointed at the bullet hole over her heart. I never wanted you to get shot. I was worse than dead.

His pajamas remained torn and stained. The horses ramping across the tops were almost indecipherable. She could barely remember that the fabric had once been sky-blue. It would never come clean. But before she could reply, Jeremiah shook his head hard; blinked until his expression cleared. They were good for something after all. Something which Lord Foul had not foreseen. In a sense, the boy had reincarnated himself from the old bones of monsters. Oh, my son. Linden needed to stop weeping. Really, she could not go on like this.

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When Stave said her name again, his tone had become more peremptory. And he was right. They could not linger here without food or water or their companions. Tell me you heard Stave. They are not going to believe it. Linden tried to refuse. She wanted nothing except to concentrate on her son. Her thirst for the sound of his voice was acute.

There was so much that she yearned to know about him. About what he had endured—and how he had endured it.

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It did not matter where she began, as long as she could search for the truth. When she rubbed at her eyes, the emptiness of her hands reminded her that she no longer held the Staff of Law.

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  7. She felt strangely reluctant to retrieve it. It represented responsibilities which were too great for her. Nevertheless she was capable now of many things that would have surpassed her less than an hour ago. She was still the same Linden Avery who had raged and failed and despaired; yet somehow she had also been made new. And watching over Jeremiah was a task to which she could commit herself without hesitation.

    As her fingers closed on the engraved blackness of the wood, another faint pang touched her nerves: an evanescent breath of approaching wrongness. Frowning, she raised her head to scent the air, extend her health-sense. The atmosphere had a brittle taste, as if it were compounded of a substance that might shatter. She knew that the season was spring; but that fact seemed to have no meaning on the Lower Land. Hideous theurgies and slaughter had made a wasteland of the entire region. Muirwin Delenoth was as desiccated as its bones: it had been shaped by death.

    Drawing warmth and sensitivity from her Staff, Linden considered the slopes of the hollow, the ragged plates around the rim. Then she lifted her attention to the declining sun and the tainted hue of the sky. The pall of ash and dust overhead was wrong in its own fashion: it was unnatural, imposed by some force beyond the reach of her senses.

    But it was not malice; not evil or deliberate. The almost imperceptible frisson of wrongness rose from some other source. Slowly she turned in a circle, pushing her percipience to its limits.