Read Online The Last Dark: The climax of the entire Thomas Covenant Chronicles (Last Chronicles of Thomas Cove) by Stephen R. Donaldson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
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as if it were a tide that lifted her into the worlds of dreams.
They were many and confusing, fraught with cryptic auguries and possible havoc. Muirwin Delenoth. An unleashed avalanche of water in the depths of Gravin Threndor. Resurrections. She Who Must Not Be Named. But one vision had more power over her than the others. In it, she and Jeremiah sat together in the living room that she would never see again, he on the floor surrounded by boxes of Legos, she in an armchair watching him. He was building an image of Mount Thunder in elaborate detail; and she loved watching him, as she had always done. The best part of the dream, however, was that he talked while he worked, happily explaining why he had chosen that image, what it meant to him, and how he had become so familiar with it, all in words which made perfect sense to her—and which were forgotten as soon as they were uttered.
Once during the night, she was awakened by the visceral realization that a distant crisis had passed. Its aftershocks began to fade as soon as she became aware of them. Reassured by the knowledge that at least one cataclysm had kept its distance and run its course, she went back to sleep easily.
She yearned to return to Jeremiah and Legos, but that dream was gone. Instead, between one instant of consciousness and another, a hand touched her shoulder, and a low voice said her name. She recognized Stave before she knew that she was no longer asleep.
“Chosen,” he said, still quietly, “dawn draws nigh. Though the disturbance in the Earth has subsided, the Giants surmise that it is but the first of many. Indeed, they deem that some alteration has come to the Land. Having rested, they judge that it is now time to arise.”
In an instant, Linden was fully awake. Jeremiah was stirring, roused by Stormpast Galesend. Like Stave, Manethrall Mahrtiir had returned. He conferred in whispers with the Ironhand, perhaps sharing any impressions that he had received from the Ranyhyn, while the other Swordmainnir secured their armor, checked their weapons, tied the scant remnant of their supplies into bundles.
A low breeze drifted along the gully, touching Linden’s nerves with an insidious sensation of change, not in the weather, but in something more fundamental, something in the nature of the air itself. The shift was not
wrongness
or malice, yet it seemed to imply that it could be as destructive as evil.
Gripping Stave’s arm and the Staff of Law, she climbed to her feet. “Has anything happened? I mean, anything specific? Are the Ranyhyn worried?”
With his usual detachment, Stave reported, “The great horses appear restive. They snort at the air and toss their heads without any cause that I am able to discern. Nor do the Giants perceive any source of peril. Nonetheless—” He hesitated as if he were searching for contact with other
Haruchai
minds; with memories which were beyond his reach. Then he continued, “I share the apprehensions of the Swordmainnir. Some dire alteration approaches. We do well to meet it standing.”
A moment later, he added, “It is in my heart that the Unbeliever has confronted his former mate, for good or ill.” A hint of discomfort in his voice made him sound more formal. “He has quelled her, or she has slain him. But the import of either outcome lies beyond my ken. Do such events conduce to the Earth’s salvation or to its damnation? It is said that there is hope in contradiction, yet that insight surpasses me. I am
Haruchai
, accustomed to clear sight or none.
“At your side, Chosen, I have made a study of uncertainty. Now I have learned that it is an abyss, no less unfathomable than the Lost Deep.”
“Don’t say that,” Linden protested. She meant, Don’t remind me that Covenant may be dead. We need him.
I
need him. “You understand more than you give yourself credit for.”
Without uncertainty—without hope in contradiction—Stave would not have become her friend. He would not have stood
They were many and confusing, fraught with cryptic auguries and possible havoc. Muirwin Delenoth. An unleashed avalanche of water in the depths of Gravin Threndor. Resurrections. She Who Must Not Be Named. But one vision had more power over her than the others. In it, she and Jeremiah sat together in the living room that she would never see again, he on the floor surrounded by boxes of Legos, she in an armchair watching him. He was building an image of Mount Thunder in elaborate detail; and she loved watching him, as she had always done. The best part of the dream, however, was that he talked while he worked, happily explaining why he had chosen that image, what it meant to him, and how he had become so familiar with it, all in words which made perfect sense to her—and which were forgotten as soon as they were uttered.
Once during the night, she was awakened by the visceral realization that a distant crisis had passed. Its aftershocks began to fade as soon as she became aware of them. Reassured by the knowledge that at least one cataclysm had kept its distance and run its course, she went back to sleep easily.
She yearned to return to Jeremiah and Legos, but that dream was gone. Instead, between one instant of consciousness and another, a hand touched her shoulder, and a low voice said her name. She recognized Stave before she knew that she was no longer asleep.
“Chosen,” he said, still quietly, “dawn draws nigh. Though the disturbance in the Earth has subsided, the Giants surmise that it is but the first of many. Indeed, they deem that some alteration has come to the Land. Having rested, they judge that it is now time to arise.”
In an instant, Linden was fully awake. Jeremiah was stirring, roused by Stormpast Galesend. Like Stave, Manethrall Mahrtiir had returned. He conferred in whispers with the Ironhand, perhaps sharing any impressions that he had received from the Ranyhyn, while the other Swordmainnir secured their armor, checked their weapons, tied the scant remnant of their supplies into bundles.
A low breeze drifted along the gully, touching Linden’s nerves with an insidious sensation of change, not in the weather, but in something more fundamental, something in the nature of the air itself. The shift was not
wrongness
or malice, yet it seemed to imply that it could be as destructive as evil.
Gripping Stave’s arm and the Staff of Law, she climbed to her feet. “Has anything happened? I mean, anything specific? Are the Ranyhyn worried?”
With his usual detachment, Stave reported, “The great horses appear restive. They snort at the air and toss their heads without any cause that I am able to discern. Nor do the Giants perceive any source of peril. Nonetheless—” He hesitated as if he were searching for contact with other
Haruchai
minds; with memories which were beyond his reach. Then he continued, “I share the apprehensions of the Swordmainnir. Some dire alteration approaches. We do well to meet it standing.”
A moment later, he added, “It is in my heart that the Unbeliever has confronted his former mate, for good or ill.” A hint of discomfort in his voice made him sound more formal. “He has quelled her, or she has slain him. But the import of either outcome lies beyond my ken. Do such events conduce to the Earth’s salvation or to its damnation? It is said that there is hope in contradiction, yet that insight surpasses me. I am
Haruchai
, accustomed to clear sight or none.
“At your side, Chosen, I have made a study of uncertainty. Now I have learned that it is an abyss, no less unfathomable than the Lost Deep.”
“Don’t say that,” Linden protested. She meant, Don’t remind me that Covenant may be dead. We need him.
I
need him. “You understand more than you give yourself credit for.”
Without uncertainty—without hope in contradiction—Stave would not have become her friend. He would not have stood
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