His fever grew in her as her awareness advanced. Her pulse laboured; paresthesia flushed across her skin; the ice of deadened nerves burned in her toes, sent cramps groping through her arches into her calves. She was being sucked toward the abyss of his venom. Blackness crowded the night, dimming the lanterns around her. Power-she wanted power. Her lungs shared his shuddering. She felt in her own chest the corrosion which gnawed at his heart, making the muscle flaccid, the beat limp. Her temples began to ache.
He was already a wasteland, and his illness and power ravaged her. She could hardly hold back the horror pounding at the back of her thoughts, hardly ignore the self-protective impetus to abandon this mad doom. Yet she went on creeping through him, studying the venom for a chance to spring at his mind.
Suddenly, a convulsion knotted him. Her shared reactions knocked her to the deck. Amid the roil of his delirium, she felt him surging toward power. She was so open to him that any blast would sear through her like a firestorm.
Desperation galvanized her resolve. Discarding stealth, she hurled her senses at his head, tried to dive into his brain.
For an instant, she was caught in the throes of wild magic as he thrashed toward an explosion. Images whirled insanely into her: the destruction of the Staff of Law; men and women being bled like cattle to feed the Banefire; Lena and rape; the two-fisted knife-blow with which he had slain a man she did not know; the slashing of his wrists. And power-white fire which crashed through the Clave, turned Santonin and the Stonemight to tinder, went reaving among the Riders to garner a harvest of blood. Power. She could not control him. He shredded her efforts as if her entire being and will were made of brittle old leaves. In his madness, he reacted to her presence as if she were a Raver.
She cried out to him. But the outrage of his ring blew her away.
For a time, she lay buffeted by gusts of midnight. They echoed in her-men and women shed like cattle, guilt and delirium, wild magic made black by venom. Her whole body burned with the force of his blast. She wanted to scream, but could not master the spasms which convulsed her lungs.
But gradually the violence receded until it was contained within her head; and the dark began to take shape around her. She was sitting half upright, supported by Cail's arms. Vaguely, she saw the First, Honninscrave, and Pitchwife crouched before her. A lantern revealed the tight concern in their faces.
When she fought her gaze into focus on the Giants, Honninscrave breathed in relief, “Stone and Sea!” Pitchwife chortled, “By the Power that remains, Chosen! You are hardy. A lesser blast broke Sevinhand Anchormaster's arm in two places.”
He knew it was me, Linden answered, unaware of her silence. He didn't let it kill me.
“The fault is mine,” said the First grimly. “I compelled you to this risk. Take no blame upon yourself. Now nothing lies within our power to aid him.”
Linden's mouth groped to form words. “Blame-?”
“He has put himself beyond our reach. For life or death, we are helpless now.”
Put-? Linden grappled with the surrounding night to look toward Covenant. The First nodded at Honninscrave. He moved aside, unblocking Linden's view.
When she saw Covenant, she almost wailed aloud.
He lay clenched and rigid, as though he would never move again, with his arms locked at his sides and need like a rictus on his lips. But he was barely visible through the sheath of wild magic which encased him. Shimmering argent covered him as completely as a caul.
Within his cocoon, his chest still struggled for breath, heart still beat weakly. The venom went on swelling his right arm, went on gnawing at his life. But she did not need any other eyes to tell her that nothing known on Starfare's Gem could breach this new defence. His caul was as indefeasible as leprosy.
This was his delirious response to her attempted possession. Because she had tried to take hold of his mind, he had put himself beyond all succour. He would not have been less accessible if he had withdrawn to another world altogether.
foodedall
Four: The Nicor of the Deep
HELPLESSLY, Linden watched herself go numb with shock. The residue of Covenant's leprosy seemed to well up in her, deadening her. She had done
Because she had tried to possess him. And because he had spared her the full consequences of his power.
Then Brinn blurred and faded as tears disfocused her vision. She could no longer see Covenant, except as a pool of hot argent in the streaked lambency of the lanterns. Was this why Lord Foul had chosen her? So that she would cause Covenant's death?
Yes. She had done such things before.
She retreated into the numbness as if she needed it, deserved it. But the hands which grasped her shoulders were gentle and demanding. Softly, they insisted on her attention, urged her out of her inner morass. They were kind and refused to be denied. When she blinked her gaze clear, she found herself looking into Pitchwife's pellucid eyes.
He sat in front of her, holding her by the shoulders. The deformation of his spine brought his misshapen face down almost to her level. His lips smiled crookedly.
“It is enough, Chosen,” he breathed in a tone of compassion. “This grief skills nothing. It is as the First has said. The fault is not yours.”
For a moment, he turned his head away. “And also not yours, my wife,” he said to the shadow of the First. “You could not have foreknown this pass.”
Then his attention returned to Linden. “He lives yet, Chosen. He lives. And while he lives, there must be hope. Fix your mind upon that. While we live, it is the meaning of our lives to hope.”
'I '- She wanted to speak, wanted to bare her dismay to Pitchwife's empathy. But the words were too terrible to be uttered.
His hands tightened slightly, pulling her posture more upright. “We do not comprehend this caul which he has woven about him. We lack your sight. You must guide us now.” His gentleness tugged at the edges of her heart. “Is this power something to be feared? Has he not perchance brought it into being to preserve his life?”
His words seemed to cast her gaze toward Covenant. She could barely see him through his shield. But she could see Vain. The Demondim-spawn stood near Covenant, and all suggestion of grinning was gone from his black mien. He bore himself as he always did, his hidden purpose untouched by any other morality. He was not even alive in any normal sense. But he concentrated on Covenant's wracked form as if together they were being put to the question of a cruel doom.
“No.” Linden's voice husked roughly out of her emptiness. “He still has that venom. He's dying in there.”
“Then”-Pitchwife's tone brought her back to his probing-“we must find the means to un-weave this power, so that he may be succoured.”
At that, her stomach turned over in protest. She wanted to cry out, Weren't you watching? I tried to possess him. This is my doing. But her ire was useless; and the Giant's empathy sloughed it away. Her remaining bitterness compressed itself into one word: “How?”
'Ah, Chosen.“ Pitchwife smiled like a shrug. ”That you must tell me.'
She flinched, closed her eyes. Unconsciously, her hands covered her face. Had she not done enough harm? Did he want her to actually hold the knife that killed Covenant?
But Pitchwife did not relent. “We lack your sight,” he repeated in quiet suasion. “You must guide us. Think on hope. Clearly, we cannot pierce this caul. Very well. Then we must answer it with understanding. What manner
