“No.” Around Covenant, the rock seemed to spin and fade as if Mount Thunder itself were on the verge of dissolution; but he clung to the centre of his mortality and stood certain, an alloy in human flesh and bone of wild magic and venom, life and death. “No,” he repeated when the First and Pitchwife met his gaze. “There's no reason for either of you to die. It won't take long. Kiril Threndor can't be very far from here. All I have to do is get there. Then it'll be over, one way or the other. All you have to do is hang on until I get there.”
Then Pitchwife did laugh, and his face lifted with gladness. “There, my wife!” he chortled. “Have I not said that they are who they are? Accept that I am with you, and be content.” Abruptly, he dropped his axe. drew out his last fagot and lit ft from the Wightbarrow, handed the sputtering wood to Linden. “Begone!” he gleamed, “ere I become maudlin at the witnessing of such valour. Fear nothing for us. We will hold and hold until the mountain itself is astonished, and still We will hold. Begone. I say!”
“Aye, begone,” growled the First as if she were angry; but her tears belied her tone. “I must have opportunity to instruct this Pitchwife in the obedience which is his debt to me First of the Search.”
Covenant wanted words, but none came to hum. What could he have said? He had made his promises long ago, and they covered everything. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes to clear his sight Then he turned toward Linden, If he had spoken, he would have asked her to stay with the Giants. He had never forgotten the shock of her intervention in the woods behind Haven Farm. And he had not loved her then. Now everything was multiplied to the acuteness of panic. He did not know how he might preserve the bare shreds and tatters of dignity-not to mention clear courage or conviction-if she accompanied him.
But the look of her silenced him. She was baffled and perceptive, frightened and brave; terrified of Cavewights and Lord Foul, and yet avid for a chance to stand against them; mortal, precious, and irrefusable. Her face had lost its imposed severity, had become in spite of wear and strain as soft as her mouth and eyes. Yet its underlying structure remained precise, indomitable. The sad legacy of her parents had led her to what she was-but the saddest thing about her was that she did not understand how completely she had transformed that legacy, had made of herself something necessary and admirable. She deserved a better outcome than this. But he had nothing else to offer her.
She held his gaze as if she wanted to match him-and feared she could not. Then she tightened her grip on her torch and stepped out among the clenched Cavewights.
She had read them accurately: any threat to the Wightbarrow outweighed all other considerations. When Covenant left the First and Pitchwife, a raw muttering aggravated the rocklight. Several Cavewights shifted their positions, raised their weapons. But the First poised one foot to begin scattering the mound; and the creatures went rigid again Covenant let weakness and fear and pain carry him like hope toward the mouth of the cave.
“Go well, Earthfriend.” the First breathed after them, “hold faith. Chosen,” as if she had become impervious to doubt. Pitchwife's faint chuckling was torn and frayed; but it followed Covenant and Linden like an affirmation of contentment.
Barely upright on his feet Covenant made his way past the Cavewights. Their eyes flamed outrage and loss at him; but they did not take the risk of striking out. The cave narrowed to a tunnel at its end, and Linden began to hurry. He did his best to keep up with her. The vulnerable place between his shoulder-blades seemed to feel the Cavewights turning to hurl their truncheons; but he entrusted himself to the Giants, did not look back. In a moment, he left the rocklight behind. Linden's torch led him back into the darkness of the catacombs.
At the first intersection, she turned as if she knew where she was going Covenant caught up with her, put his hand on her arm to slow her somewhat She acceded, but continued to bear herself as though she were being harried by unseen wings in Mount Thunder's immeasurable midnight. As her senses hunted the way ahead for peril or guidance, she began to mutter-to herself or to him, he could not tell which.
“They're wrong. They don't know enough. Whatever they brought back from the dead, it wasn't going to be Drool Rockworm. Not just another Cavewight. Something monstrous.
“Blood brings power. They had to kill someone. But what Caer-CaveraI did for Hollian can't be done here. It only worked because they were in Andelain. And Andelain was intact. All that concentrated Earthpower-Concentrated and clean. Whatever those Cavewights resurrected, it was going to be abominable.”
When he understood that she was not talking about the Cavewights and Drool-that she was trying to say something rise entirely-Covenant stumbled. His throbbing arm struck the wall of the passage, and he nearly lost his balance. Pain made his arm dangle as if it were being dragged down by the inconceivable weight of his ring. She was talking about the hope which he had never admitted to himself-the hope that if he died he, too, might be brought back.
“Linden- ” He did not wish to speak, to argue with her. They had so little time left. Fire gnawed up and down his arm. He needed to husband his determination. But she had already gone too far in his name. Swallowing his weakness, he said, “I don't want to be resurrected.”
She did not look at him. Roughly, he went on, “You're going to go back to your own life. Sometime soon. And I won't get to go with you. You know it's too late to save me. Not back there. Where we come from, that kind of thing doesn't happen. Even if I'm resurrected, I won't get to go with you.
“If I can't go with you”- he told her the truth as well as he could- “I'd rather stay with my friends. Mhoram and Foamfollower. Elena and Banner. Honninscrave. And the wait for Sunder and Hollian would not seem long to him.
She refused to hear him. “Maybe not,” she rasped. “Maybe we can still get back in time. I couldn't save you before because your spirit wasn't there-your will to live. If you would Just stop giving up, we might still have a chance.” Her voice was husky with thwarted yearning. “You're bruised and exhausted. I don't know how you stay on your feet. But you haven't been stabbed yet.” Her gaze flashed toward the faint scar in the centre of his chest. “You don't have to die.”
But be saw the grief in her eyes and knew that she did not believe her own protestation.
He drew her to a halt. With his good hand, he wrested his wedding band from its finger. His touch was cold and numb, as if he had no idea what he was doing. Fervent and silent as a prayer, he extended the ring toward her. Its unmarred argent cast glints of the wavering torchlight.
At once, tears welled in her eyes. Streaks of reflected fire flowed down the lines which severity and loss had left on either side of her mouth. But she gave the ring no more than a glance. Her gaze clung to his countenance. “No,” she whispered. “Not while I can still hope.”
Abruptly, she moved on down the passage.
Sighing rue and relief like a man who had been reprieved or damned and did not know the difference-did not care if there were no difference-he thrust the ring back into place and followed her.
The tunnel became as narrow as a mere crack in the rock, then widened into a complex of junctions and chambers. The torch barely lit the walls and ceiling; it revealed nothing of what lay ahead. But from one passage came a breeze like a scent of evil that made Linden wince; and she turned that way Covenant's hearing ached as he struggled to discern the sounds of pursuit or danger. But he lacked her percipience; he had to trust her.
The tunnel she had chosen angled downward until he thought that even vertigo would not be strong enough to keep him upright. Darkness and stone piled tremendously around him. The torch continued to burn down. It was half consumed already. Somewhere beyond the mountain, the Land lay in day or night; but he had lost all conception of time. Time had no meaning here, in the lightless unpity of Lord Foul's demesne. Only the torch mattered-and Linden's pale-knuckled grasp on the brand-and the fact that he was not alone. For good or ill, redemption or ruin, he was not alone. There was no other way.