Eighteen: Surrender

SHE awoke in dank dark, tugged step after step toward consciousness by the dull rhythmic repetition of a grunt of strain, a clash of metal.

Her upper arms ached like the folly of all promises.

She could see nothing. She was in a place as benighted as a sepulchre. But as her mind limped into wakefulness, her senses slowly began to function, giving names to what they perceived.

She did not want to be roused. She had failed at everything. Even her deliberate efforts to make Kasreyn unsure of himself—to aggravate the implicit distrust between the gaddhi and his Kemper—had come to ruin. It was enough. Within her lay death and peace, and she yearned for them because her life was as futile as everything she had ever striven to deny.

But the stubborn grunt and clash would not let her go. That even iteration rose from somewhere beyond her, repudiating her desire for sleep, demanding that she take it into account. Gradually, she began to listen to the messages of her nerves.

She was hanging upright:  all her weight was suspended from her upper arms. Her biceps were clasped in tight iron circlets. When she found her footing, straightened her legs, the pressure of the fetters eased; and spears of renewed circulation thrust pain down her arms to her swollen hands.

The movement made her aware of her ankles. They, too. were locked in iron. But those bonds were attached to chains and could be shifted slightly,

The fetters held her against a wall of stone. She was in a lightless rectangular chamber. Finished rock surrounded her, then faded into an immense impending weight. She was underground somewhere beneath the Sandhold. The walls and the air were chill. She had never expected anything in Bhrathairealm to be so chill.

The faint sick smell of dead blood touched her nostrils—the blood of hustin and soldiers, soaked into her clothes.

The sounds went on: grunt of effort, clash of resistance.

Within the dark, another darkness stood before her. The nerves of her cheeks recognized Vain. The Demondim—spawn was perhaps ten feet from her. He was harder than any granite, more rigid than any annealed metal. The purpose he obeyed seemed more sure of itself than the very bones of the Earth. But he had proven himself inaccessible to appeal. If she cried out, the walls would be more likely to answer her than he.

After all, he was no more to be trusted than Findail, who had fled rather than give the company aid.

The sounds of effort went on, articulating themselves across the blackness. Every exertion produced a dull ringing like the noise of a chain leaping taut.

With an inchoate throb of ire or anguish, Linden turned away from Vain and identified Honninscrave.

The Master stood upright no great distance from her. The chamber was not particularly large. His aura was a knurling of anger and resolve. At slow, rhythmic intervals, he bunched his great muscles, hurled all his strength and weight against his chains. But their clashing gave no hint of fatigue or failure. She felt raw pain growing where the fetters held his wrists. His breathing rasped as if the dank air hurt his chest.

From another part of the wall, the First said hoarsely, “Honninscrave. In the name of pity.”

But the Bhrathair had tried to sink Starfare's Gem, and he did not stop.

The First's tone revealed no serious physical harm. Linden's senses began to move more swiftly. Her ears picked out the various respirations in the chamber. Her nerves explored the space. Somewhere between the First and Honninscrave, she located Pitchwife. The specific wheeze with which his crippled chest took and released air told her that he was unconscious. The pain he emitted showed that he had been dealt a heavy blow; but she felt no evidence of bleeding from him.

Beside her, she found Cail. He held himself still, breathed quietly; but his Haruchai flesh was unmistakable. He seemed no less judgmental and unyielding than the stone to which he was chained.

Brinn was bound against another wall, opposite the First. His abstract rigidity suggested to Linden that he had made the same attempt Honninscrave was making—and had judged it to be folly. Yet his native extravagance responded to what the Master was doing.

Seadreamer stood near Brinn, yearning out into the dark toward his brother. His muteness was as poignant as a wail. Deep within himself, he was a knot of Earth—Sight and despair.

For a moment, his intensity deafened Linden to Ceer. But then she became aware of the injured Haruchai. He also was chained to the wall across from the First, Pitchwife, and Honninscrave. His posture and respiration were as implacable as Brinn's or Cail's; but she caught the taste of pain—sweat from him. The emanations of his shoulder were sharp: his bonds held him in a position which accentuated his broken clavicle. But that hurt paled beside the shrill protest of his crushed knee.

Instinctive empathy struck at her legs, taking them out from under her. She could not stand upright again, bear her own weight, until the misery in her upper arms brought her back to herself. Ceer was so hurt, and held the damage in such disdain—All her training and her long defense cried out against what had happened to him. Groaning, she wrestled with the memory of Kasreyn's defalcation, tried to think of something she might have done to alter the outcome.

But there was nothing—nothing except submission. Give Covenant to the Kemper. Help Kasreyn work his will on Covenant's irreducible vulnerability. Betray every impulse which bound her to the Unbeliever. No. That she could not have done—not even to save Ceer from agony, Hergrom from death. Thomas Covenant was more to her than—

Covenant!

In the unaneled midnight of the dungeon, he was nowhere to be found.

Her senses clawed the dark in all directions, searching manically. But she discovered no glimmer of pulse or tremor of breath which might have been the Unbeliever. Vain was there. Cail was beside her. The First, Honninscrave in his exertions, Ceer bleeding: she identified them all. Opposite her, beyond Vain, she thought she perceived the flat iron of a door. But of Covenant there was no sign, nothing.

Oh dear God.

Her moan must have been audible; some of her companions turned toward her. “Linden Avery,” the First said tightly. “Chosen. Are you harmed?”

The blackness became giddy and desperate, beating about her head. The smell of blood was everywhere. Only the hard accusation of the bonds kept her from slumping to the floor. She had brought the company to this. Covenant's name bled through her lips, and the dark took it away.

“Chosen” the First insisted.

Linden's soul cried for an end, for any blankness or violence which would put a stop to it. But in return came echoes of the way her mother had begged for death, mocking her. Iron and stone scorned her desire for flight, for surcease. And she had to answer the concern of her friends. Somehow, she said, “He's not here. I lost him.”

The First released a taut sigh. Covenant gone. The end of the quest. Yet she had been tempered to meet extremities; and her tone acknowledged no defeat. “Nonetheless it was a good ploy. Our hope lay in setting the gaddhi and his Kemper at each other. We could not have done otherwise.”

But Linden had no heart for such cold comfort. “Kasreyn has him,” The chill of the air sharpened her gall. “We played right into his hands. He's got everything he wants.”

“Has he?” The First sounded like a woman who could stand upright under any doom. Near her, Honninscrave strained against his fetters with unceasing ferocity. “Then why do we yet live?”

Linden started to retort, Maybe he just wants to play with us. But then the true import of the First's words penetrated her. Maybe Kasreyn did want to wreak cruelty on the questers, in punishment or sport. And maybe maybe he still needed them for something. He had already had one chance at the white gold and had not succeeded. Maybe now he intended to use the company against Covenant in some way.

If that were true, she might get one more chance. One last opportunity to make herself and her promises mean something.

Then passion burned like a fever through her chilled skin. The dark made a distant roaring in her ears, and her pulse defenseed as if it had been goaded.

Sweet Christ. Give me one more chance.

But the First was speaking again. The need in her voice caught and held Linden's attention. “Chosen, you have eyes which I lack. What has befallen Pitchwife my husband? I hear his breath at my side, yet he gives no response.”

Linden felt the First's suppressed emotion as if it were a link between them. “He's unconscious.” She had become as lucid as perfect ice. “Somebody hit him pretty hard. But I think he's going to be all right. I don't hear any sign of concussion or coma. Nothing broken. He should come out of it soon.”

The ferocity of Honninscrave's exertions covered the First's initial relief. But then she lifted up her voice to say clearly, “Chosen, I thank you.” The intervening dark could not prevent Linden from tasting the First's silent tears.

Linden gripped her cold sharp lucidity and waited to make use of it.

Later, Pitchwife roused himself. Groaning and muttering, he slowly mastered his dismay. The First answered his questions simply, making no effort to muffle the ache in her voice.

But after a few moments, Linden stopped listening to them. From somewhere in the distance, she seemed to hear the sounds of feet. Gradually, she became sure of them.

Three or four sets of feet. Hustin—and someone else?

The iron clatter of the door silenced the company. Light sprang into the cell from a brightly lit corridor, revealing that the door was several high steps above the level of the floor. Two Guards bearing torches thudded heavily down the stairs.

Behind them came Rant Absolain.

Linden identified the gaddhi with her nerves. Blinded by the sudden illumination, she could not see him. Ducking her head, she blinked and squinted to drive the blur from her vision.

In the light on the floor between her and Vain lay Thomas Covenant.

All his muscles were limp; but his arms were flat against his sides and his legs were straight, betraying that he had been consciously arrayed in that position. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling as if he were no more than the husk of a living man. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest showed that he was not dead. Smudges of blackened blood marked his shirt like the handprints of Linden's culpability.

The cell seemed to become abruptly colder. For a moment like the onset of hysteria, Linden could not grasp what she was seeing. Here was Covenant, plainly visible— yet he was completely invisible to the other dimension of her senses. When she squeezed her eyes shut in wonder and fear, he appeared to vanish. Her percipience found no evidence of him at all. Yet he was there, materializing for her the instant she reopened her eyes.

With an inward quaver, she remembered where she had sensed such a phenomenon before. The Kemper's son. Covenant had become like the infant Kasreyn bore constantly on his back.

Then she noticed the golden band clasped around Covenant's neck.

She was unable to read it, did not understand it. But at once she was intuitively certain that it explained what had happened to him. It was Kasreyn's hold on him; and it blocked her senses as if it had been specifically designed for that purpose. To prevent her from reaching into him?

Oh, Kasreyn, you bastard!

But she had no time to think. The Guards had set their torches on either side of the door, and Rant Absolain advanced between them to confront the quest.

With a fierce effort, Linden forced her attention away from Covenant. When she looked at the gaddhi, she saw that he was feverishly drunk. Purple splashes sotted his raiment; his orbs were raw with inebriation and dread.

He was staring at Honninscrave. The Giant's relentless fury for escape appalled him. Slowly, rhythmically, Honninscrave knotted his muscles, hurled himself against the chains, and did not stop. From manacle to elbow, his arms were lined with thin trails of blood.

Quickly, Linden took advantage of Rant Absolain's transfixion to scan her companions.

In spite of his impassivity, Ceer's pallor revealed the extent of his pain. His bandages were soaked with the red of a reopened wound. Pitchwife's injury was less serious; but it left a livid swelling on his right temple.

Then Linden found herself gaping at the First. She had lost both shield and helm; but in her scabbard hung her new falchion. Its grip was just beyond the reach of her chained hands. It must have been restored to her to taunt her helplessness. Or to mock Rant Absolain? Did Kasreyn mean to task the gaddhi for that ill—considered gift?

But the First bore herself as if she were impervious to such malice. While Rant Absolain stared his alarm at Honninscrave, she said distinctly, “O gaddhi, it is not wise to speak in the presence of these hustin. Their ears are Kasreyn's ears, and he will learn the purpose of your coming.”

Her words pierced his stupefied apprehension. He looked away, staggered for balance, then shouted a dismissal in the Bhrathair tongue. The two Guards obeyed, leaving the door open as they departed.

Honninscrave fixed his gaze on that egress as he fought to break his fetters.

As soon as the Guards were gone, Rant Absolain fumbled forward as if the light were dim. For a moment, he tried to peer up at the First; but her height threatened his stability. He swung toward Linden, advanced on her until he was so close that she could not avoid breathing the miasma of his besottedness.

Squinting into her face, he hissed urgently, secretively, “Free me from this Kemper.”

Linden fought down her revulsion and pity, held her voice level. “Get rid of him yourself. He's your Kemper. All you have to do is exile him.”

He winced. His hands plucked at her shoulders as if he wanted to plead with her—or needed her help to keep from falling. “No,” he whispered. “It is impossible. I am only the gaddhi. He is Kasreyn of the Gyre. The power is his. The Guards are his. And the Sandgorgons—” He was shivering. “All Bhrathairealm knows—” He faltered, then resumed, Prosperity and wealth are his to give. Not mine. My people care nothing for me.“ He became momentarily lugubrious. But then his purpose returned to him. ”Slay him for me.“ When she did not reply at once, he panted, ”You must."

An odd pang for his folly and weakness touched her heart.

But she did not let herself waver. “Free us,” she said as severely as she could. “We'll find a way to get rid of him.”

“Free—?” He gaped at her. “I dare not. He will know. If you fail—” His eyes were full of beggary. “You must free yourselves. And slay him. Then I will be safe.” His lips twisted on the verge of sobs. “I must be safe.”

At that moment, with her companions watching her, Linden heard footsteps in the corridor and knew that she had a chance to drive another nail into his coffin. Perhaps it would have been the final nail. She did not doubt who was coming. But she had mercy on him. Probably he could never have been other than he was.

Raising her voice, she said distinctly, “We're your prisoners. It's cruel to mock us like this.”

Then Kasreyn stood in the doorway. From that elevation, he appeared commanding and indefeasible, certain of his mastery. His voice caressed the air like the soft stroke of a whip, playful and threatening. “She speaks truly, O gaddhi. You demean yourself here. They have slain your Guards, giving offense to you and all Bhrathairealm. Do not cheapen the honour of your countenance with them. Depart, I bid you.”

Rant Absolain staggered. His face stretched as if he were about to wail. But behind his drunkenness some instinct for self—preservation still functioned. With an exaggerated lurch, he turned toward the Kemper. Slurring his words, he said, “I desired to vent my wrath. It is my right.” Then he shambled to the stairs and worked his way up them, leaving the cell without a glance at either Kasreyn or the questers. In that way, he preserved the illusion which was his sole hope for survival.

Linden watched him go and clinched herself. Toward Kasreyn of the Gyre she felt no mercy at all.

The Kemper bowed unkindly to his gaddhi, then stepped into the cell, closed the iron door. As he came down the stairs, the intensity of his visage was focused on Linden; and the yellowness of his robe and his teeth seemed to concentrate toward her like a presage of his geas.

She made a resolute effort of self—command, looked to verify what she had seen earlier. It was true: like Covenant, the Kemper's infant was visible to her superficial sight but not to her deeper perceptions.

“My friends,” Kasreyn said, addressing all the company but gazing only at Linden, “I will not delay. I am eager.” Rheum

glazed his eyes like cataracts. “Aye, eager.” He stepped over Covenant to stand before her. “You have foiled me as you were able, but now you are ended.” Spittle reflected a glode of light at one corner of his mouth. “Now I will have the white gold.”

She stared back at him direly. Her companions stood still, studying her and the Kemper—all except Honninscrave, who did not interrupt his exertions even for Kasreyn of the Gyre.

“I do not maze you.” His tongue quickly licked his lips. “Well, it may not be denied that to some degree I have slighted your true measure. But no more.” He retreated slightly to her left. “Linden Avery, you will grant the white gold to me.”

Clenching herself rigid—awaiting her opportunity—Linden rasped mordantly, “You're crazy.”

He cocked an eyebrow like a gesture of scorn. “Am I, indeed? Harken— and consider. I desire this Thomas Covenant to submit his ring into my hand. Such submission must be a matter of choice, and there is a veil in his mind which inures him to all choice. Therefore this veil must be pierced, that I may wrest the choice I desire from him.” Abruptly, he stabbed a bony finger at Linden. “You will pierce it for me.”

At that, her heart leaped. But she strove to conceal her tension, did not let her angry glare waver. Articulating each word precisely, she uttered an obscene refusal.

His eyes softened like an anticipation of lust. Quietly, he asked, “Do you deny me?”

She remained silent as if she did not deign to reply. Only the regular gasp and clatter of Honninscrave's efforts denned the stillness. She almost hoped that Kasreyn would use his ocular on her. She felt certain that she would be unable to enter Covenant at all if she were in the grip of the Kemper's geas.

But he appeared to understand the folly of coercing her with theurgy. Without warning, he whirled, lashed a vicious kick at Ceer's bloody knee.

The unexpected blow wrung pain through Ceer's teeth. For a moment, his ambience faded as if he were about to faint.

The First sprang against her manacles. Seadreamer tried to swipe at Kasreyn, but could not reach him.

The Kemper faced Linden again. His voice was softer than before. “Do you deny me?”

Tremors built toward shuddering in her. She let them rise, let herself ache so that she might convince him. “If I let you persuade me like that, Brinn and Cail will kill me.”

Deep within herself, she begged him to believe her. Another such blow would break her. How could she go on spending Ceer's agony to prevent the Kemper from guessing her intent?

“They will not live to lift finger against you!” barked Kasreyn in sudden anger. But a moment later he recollected himself. “Yet no matter,” he went on with renewed gentleness. “I have other suasions.” As he spoke, he moved past Vain until he was standing near Covenant's feet. Only the Demondim—spawn was able to ignore him. He held the company in a grasp of horror.

He relished their abomination. Slowly, he raised his right arm.

As he did so, Covenant rose from the floor, jerking erect as if he had been pulled upright by the band around his throat.

Kasreyn moved his hand in a circular gesture from the end of his thin wrist. Covenant turned. His eyes saw nothing. Controlled by the golden neckpiece, he was as blank as his aura. His shirt was stained with death. He went on turning until Kasreyn motioned for him to stop.

The sight nearly snapped Linden's resolve. That Covenant should be so malleable in the Kemper's hands! Whatever harms he had committed, he did not deserve this indignity. And he had made restitution! No man could have striven harder to make restitution. In Coercri he had redeemed the Unhomed Dead. He had once defeated Lord Foul. And he had done everything conceivable for Linden herself. There was no justice in his plight. It was evil.

Evil

Tears coursed hotly down her cheeks like the acid of her mortality.

With a flick of his wrist, Kasreyn sent Covenant toward her.

Fighting her manacles, she tried to fend him away. But he forced himself past her hands, thrust forward to plant a cold dead kiss on her groaning mouth. Then he retreated a step. With his half—hand, he struck her a blow that made her whole face burn.

The Kemper recalled him. He obeyed, as lifeless as a marionette. Kasreyn was still gazing at Linden. Malice bared his old teeth. In a voice of hunger, he said, “Do you see that my command upon him is complete?”

She nodded. She could not help herself. Soon Kasreyn would be able to instruct her as easily as he used Covenant.

“Then witness.” The Kemper made complex gestures; and Covenant raised his hands, turned his fingers inward like claws. They dug into the flesh around his eyes.

“If you do not satisfy me”—Kasreyn's voice jumped avidly—“I will command him to blind himself.”

That was enough. She could not bear any more. Long quivers of fury ran through all her muscles. She was ready now.

Before she could acquiesce, a prodigious effort tore a howl from Honninscrave's chest. With impossible strength, he ripped the chain binding his left arm from its bracket; and the chain cracked outward like a flail. Driven by all the force of his immense exertion, it struck Kasreyn in the throat.

The blow pitched the Kemper backward. He fell heavily on the steps, tumbled to the floor. There he lay still. So much iron and strength must have shattered every bone in his neck. Linden's vision leaped toward him, saw that he was dead. The fact stunned her. For an instant, she hardly realised that he was not bleeding.

The First let out a savage cry. “Stone and Sea, Honninscrave! Bravely done!”

But a moment later Kasreyn twitched. His limbs shifted. Slowly, stiffly, he climbed to his hands and knees, then to his feet. An instant ago, he had had no pulse: now his heart beat with renewed vigour. Strength flowed back into him. He turned to face the company. He was grinning like a promise of murder.

Linden gaped at him, horrified. The First swore weakly.

The infant on his back was smiling sweetly in its sleep.

He looked at Honninscrave. The Giant sagged against the wall in near exhaustion. But his intent glare warned plainly that with one hand free he would soon be free altogether.

“My friend,” the Kemper said tightly, “your death will be one to surpass your most heinous fears.”

Honninscrave responded with a gasping snarl. But Kasreyn remained beyond reach of the Master's chain.

Slowly, the Kemper shifted his attention away from Honninscrave. Facing Linden, he repeated, "If you do not satisfy me.“ Only the tautness of his voice betrayed that anything had happened to him. ”I will command him to blind himself."

Covenant had not moved. He still stood with his fingers poised to gouge out his eyes.

Linden cast one last long look at his terrible defenselessness. Then she let herself sag. How could she fight a man who was able to rise from the dead? “You'll have to take that band off his neck. It blocks me,”

Cail surged against his chains. “Chosen!” the First cried in protest. Pitchwife gaped dismay at her.

Linden ignored them. She was watching Kasreyn. Grinning fiercely, he approached Covenant. With one hand, he touched the yellow band. It came away in his grasp.

At once, Covenant slumped back into his familiar emptiness. His eyes were void. For no reason, he said, “Don't touch me.”

Before Linden could reach out to him in yearning or rage, try to keep her promises, the floor near Vain's feet began to swirl and melt. With surprising celerity, Findail flowed out of the granite into human form.

Immediately, he confronted Linden. “Are you a fool?” The habitual misery of his features shouted at her. “This is ruin!” She had never heard such anguish from any Elohim. “Do you not comprehend that the Earth is at peril? Therefore did I urge you to your ship while the way was open, that these straits might be evaded. Sun—Sage, hear me!” When she did not respond, his apprehension mounted. “I am the Appointed. The doom of the Earth is upon my head. I beg of you—do not do this thing!”

But she was not listening to him. Kasreyn stood grinning behind Covenant as if he knew he had nothing to fear from Findail. His hands held the golden band, the threat which had compelled her. Yet she ignored the Kemper also. She paid no heed to the consternation of her companions. She had been preparing herself for this since the moment when the First had said, Why do we yet live? She had striven for it with every fiber of her will, fought for this chance to create her own answer. The removal of that neck—band. The opportunity to make good on at least one promise.

All of her was focused on Covenant. While her companions sought to distract her, dissuade her, she opened her senses to him. In a rush like an outpouring of ecstasy or loss, rage or grief, she surrendered herself to his emptiness.

Now she took no account of the passion with which she entered him. And she offered no resistance as she was swept into the long gulf. She saw that her former failures had been caused by her attempts to bend him to her own will, her own use; but now she wanted nothing for herself, withheld nothing. Abandoning herself entirely, she fell like a dying star into the blankness behind which the Elohim had hidden his soul.

Yet she did not forget Kasreyn. He was watching avidly, poised for the reawakening of Covenant's will. At that moment, Covenant would be absolutely vulnerable; for surely he would not regain full possession of his consciousness and his power instantly, and until he did he would have no defense against the Kemper's geas. Linden felt no mercy toward Kasreyn, contained nothing at all which might have resembled mercy toward him. As she fell and fell like death into Covenant's emptiness, she shouted voiceless instructions which echoed through the uninhabitation of his mind.

Now no visions came out of his depths to appal her. She had surrendered so completely that nothing remained to cause her dismay. Instead, she felt the layers of her independent self being stripped away. Severity and training and medical school were gone, leaving her fifteen and loss—ridden, unable at that time to conceive of any answer to her mother's death. Grief and guilt and her mother were gone, so that she seemed to contain nothing except the cold unexpungeable horror and accusation of her father's suicide. Then even suicide was gone, and she stood under a clean sun in fields and flowers, full of a child's capacity for happiness, joy, love. She could have fallen that way forever.

The sunlight spread its wings about her, and the wind ruffled her hair like a hand of affection. She shouted in pleasure. And her shout was answered. A boy came toward her across the fields. He was older than she—he seemed much older, though he was still only a boy, and the Covenant he would become was nothing more than an implication in the lines of his face, the fire of his eyes. He approached her with a shy half—smile. His hands were open and whole and accessible. Caught in a whirl of instinctive exaltation, she ran toward him with her arms wide, yearning for the embrace which would transform her.

But when she touched him, the gap was bridged, and his emptiness flooded into her. At once, she could see everything, hear everything. All her senses functioned normally. Her companions had fallen silent: they were staring at her in despair. Kasreyn stood near Covenant with his ocular held ready, his hands trembling as if they could no longer suppress their caducity. But behind what she saw and heard, she wailed like a foretaste of her coming life. She was a child in a field of flowers, and the older boy she adored had left her. The love had gone out of the sunlight, leaving the day bereft as if all joy were dead.

Yet she saw him—saw the boy in the man, Thomas Covenant—as life and will spread back into his limbs. She saw him take hold of himself, lift his head. All her senses functioned normally. She could do nothing but wail as he turned toward Kasreyn, exposed himself to the Kemper's geas. He was still too far away from himself to make any defense.

But before the Kemper was able to use his ocular, the instructions she had left in Covenant reached him. He looked straight at Kasreyn and obeyed her.

Distinctly, he articulated one clear word:

“Nom.”