Read Online Against All Things Ending by Stephen R. Donaldson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
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refusal to acknowledge or answer Berek Halfhand. The Harrow watched Linden avidly while Infelice shed distress like damaged jewels.
But Linden ignored them as well. A score of paces, or perhaps more, brought her face-to-face with the Law-Breakers, who had escorted Covenant out of Time to meet her uttermost need.
Elena seemed unable to meet her gaze. Regret and grief twisted the High Lord’s features as she studied the grass at Linden’s feet, the stains on Linden’s jeans. Lit by the krill , torn hair framed Elena’s galled face, her naked self-abhorrence.
At any other time, Linden might have been moved by empathy to remain silent. Elena was Covenant’s daughter. In simple kindness, if for no other reason, Linden might have tried to show the spectre as much consideration as she had given Joan.
But Roger also was Covenant’s child. Linden had no patience for Elena. She could not afford to treat Elena’s failings more gently than her own. Linden had committed an absolute crime. Only absolute responses would suffice.
Berek was right about her: she had become a kind of Gallows Howe. The sorrow that she had felt for Kevin Landwaster was like Caerroil Wildwood’s grief for his trees—and for his future. It remained with her; but its implied vulnerability had already bled away into soil made barren by death. Like the former Forestal of Garroting Deep, she was aghast at the scale of her own inadequacy. But she had none of his fury, and no one to blame. She was too full of dismay to consider Elena’s frailty.
Perhaps Elena understood the gift which Berek, Damelon, and Loric had given Kevin. Her spirit as she avoided Linden’s gaze seemed to yearn for some forgiving touch. In her, hope was commingled with a raw fear that she would be refused.
But Linden had gone too far beyond hope and despair to comfort Elena. Covenant’s daughter needed his consolation, not Linden’s.
In a low voice, taut and bitter, she demanded, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” She was speaking to herself as much as to Elena’s woe. “It doesn’t accomplish anything. You’ve suffered enough. Tell me what to do now.”
Tell me how to bear what I’ve done.
She needed an answer. But apparently she—like Elena herself—had misjudged the Dead. In a different form, Elena may once have aided Covenant: she had no aid to offer now. Instead an echo of Linden’s dismay twisted her features. Raising her face to the doomed stars, she uttered a wail of desolation: the stark cry of a woman whose wracked heart had been denied.
Then she flared briefly in the krill ’s light and vanished, following the distant ancestors of her High Lordship out of the vale; out of the night.
From the bottom of the hollow, Linden’s friends gazed at her as if she had smitten their hearts. Infelice’s distress matched the outrage of the Humbled.
“Elena!” Linden cried urgently. “Come back! I need you!” But her appeal died, forlorn, among the benighted trees, and found no reply.
Instead Caer-Caveral faced her with severity and indignation in every line of his spectral form.
“You judge harshly, Wildwielder. The Landwaster himself has been granted solace. Does your heart hold no compassion for Elena daughter of Lena, whose daring and folly compelled her to spend herself in service to the Despiser?”
“Damnit,” Linden retorted without flinching, “that’s not the point. Compassion isn’t going to save any of us.” There was nothing left to save except Jeremiah. “ Somebody has to tell me what to do.”
The Dead Forestal folded his arms across his chest, holding his scepter in the crook of his elbow; forbidding her. “Cease your protests.” He had set aside every impulse or emotion that might have resembled mercy. “They are bootless. We have no counsel for you.”
Linden beat her fists on her temples. She would have clutched at Caer-Caveral if he had been anything more than an eidolon. “Then tell me why you won’t help me. When
But Linden ignored them as well. A score of paces, or perhaps more, brought her face-to-face with the Law-Breakers, who had escorted Covenant out of Time to meet her uttermost need.
Elena seemed unable to meet her gaze. Regret and grief twisted the High Lord’s features as she studied the grass at Linden’s feet, the stains on Linden’s jeans. Lit by the krill , torn hair framed Elena’s galled face, her naked self-abhorrence.
At any other time, Linden might have been moved by empathy to remain silent. Elena was Covenant’s daughter. In simple kindness, if for no other reason, Linden might have tried to show the spectre as much consideration as she had given Joan.
But Roger also was Covenant’s child. Linden had no patience for Elena. She could not afford to treat Elena’s failings more gently than her own. Linden had committed an absolute crime. Only absolute responses would suffice.
Berek was right about her: she had become a kind of Gallows Howe. The sorrow that she had felt for Kevin Landwaster was like Caerroil Wildwood’s grief for his trees—and for his future. It remained with her; but its implied vulnerability had already bled away into soil made barren by death. Like the former Forestal of Garroting Deep, she was aghast at the scale of her own inadequacy. But she had none of his fury, and no one to blame. She was too full of dismay to consider Elena’s frailty.
Perhaps Elena understood the gift which Berek, Damelon, and Loric had given Kevin. Her spirit as she avoided Linden’s gaze seemed to yearn for some forgiving touch. In her, hope was commingled with a raw fear that she would be refused.
But Linden had gone too far beyond hope and despair to comfort Elena. Covenant’s daughter needed his consolation, not Linden’s.
In a low voice, taut and bitter, she demanded, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” She was speaking to herself as much as to Elena’s woe. “It doesn’t accomplish anything. You’ve suffered enough. Tell me what to do now.”
Tell me how to bear what I’ve done.
She needed an answer. But apparently she—like Elena herself—had misjudged the Dead. In a different form, Elena may once have aided Covenant: she had no aid to offer now. Instead an echo of Linden’s dismay twisted her features. Raising her face to the doomed stars, she uttered a wail of desolation: the stark cry of a woman whose wracked heart had been denied.
Then she flared briefly in the krill ’s light and vanished, following the distant ancestors of her High Lordship out of the vale; out of the night.
From the bottom of the hollow, Linden’s friends gazed at her as if she had smitten their hearts. Infelice’s distress matched the outrage of the Humbled.
“Elena!” Linden cried urgently. “Come back! I need you!” But her appeal died, forlorn, among the benighted trees, and found no reply.
Instead Caer-Caveral faced her with severity and indignation in every line of his spectral form.
“You judge harshly, Wildwielder. The Landwaster himself has been granted solace. Does your heart hold no compassion for Elena daughter of Lena, whose daring and folly compelled her to spend herself in service to the Despiser?”
“Damnit,” Linden retorted without flinching, “that’s not the point. Compassion isn’t going to save any of us.” There was nothing left to save except Jeremiah. “ Somebody has to tell me what to do.”
The Dead Forestal folded his arms across his chest, holding his scepter in the crook of his elbow; forbidding her. “Cease your protests.” He had set aside every impulse or emotion that might have resembled mercy. “They are bootless. We have no counsel for you.”
Linden beat her fists on her temples. She would have clutched at Caer-Caveral if he had been anything more than an eidolon. “Then tell me why you won’t help me. When
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