think I’m stupid. You want to keep me talking so you’ll have time to recover. But you really don’t understand. You don’t understand anything. I can’t lose here.
“I’m going to answer your questions for a while because I want you to know what despair feels like.” Long ago, Thomas Covenant had said to her, There’s only one way to hurt a man who’s lost everything. Give him back something broken. Roger and Lord Foul had done that to her now. But Roger’s father had not allowed his pain to rule him.
“Go on,” she said more firmly. “I’m listening.” Roger flicked his lurid hand; sent an arc of fire like a streak of molten stone across the ceiling of the cave. But he did not direct his force at her. A grin of grim delight showed his teeth as he replied. “For another, there was always the chance you might actually give me my ring. That would have saved all of us no end of trouble.
“I tried to talk you into it. The croyel thinks I should have tried harder. But I knew you wouldn’t do it. You love power too much.” Linden heard him clearly. He meant that in her place he would not have surrendered his father’s ring. He did not comprehend her at all.
“That’s not an answer,” she retorted. As the transcendence of her Command faded, she recovered more and more of herself. “Why did you care if I went to Andelain? Tell the truth for once. You’re part Elohim. And the croyel-” The creature had raped her son’s trapped mind in order to manipulate her. “They seem like they’re capable of anything. If the two of you aren’t strong enough to destroy the Arch of Time on your own, why didn’t you just come here? What did you need me for? What was so important about keeping me away from Andelain?” Jeremiah himself, the ensnared boy whom Linden had adopted and loved, did not react. He could not. He wandered a chartless wilderness of loneliness and abandonment while the croyel clung like a tumour to his back. His disfocused gaze and his damp mouth promised only sorrow.
Nevertheless he struck without warning. Dropping his ruined racecar, he sprang at Linden. A reflection of ruddy fire flashed on his oaken dagger as he raised it high. Guided and compelled by the fulvous glare and sharp teeth of the croyel, he hammered his splinter of deadwood into the back of her right hand where it gripped the Staff.
He may have wanted to nail her hand to the long shaft; cripple her somehow. If so, he failed. The clean wood of the Staff was impervious to his stiletto. When it had pierced her hand, his sharp scrap of Garroting Deep was turned aside.
For a moment, however, the pain of her wound nearly unmade her. It bit into her nerves like fangs and acid. She scarcely felt the warm spurting of her blood as it streamed over her left hand and down the Staff; yet she might as well have been crucified. She would have lapsed into shock at once if the air of the cave had not filled her lungs with distilled Earthpower. But instead she cried out as though Jeremiah’s blow had ripped through the centre of her chest. A brief rush of tears joined the pulsing flow of her blood.
Then, as suddenly as a crisis of the heart, she detached herself from the pain; distanced it as though it belonged to someone else. Dispassionately she surveyed the shard jutting through her hand. The confusion of her health-sense was gone: in chagrin and desperation, she had at last tuned her perceptions to the precise pitch and timbre of the Earth Blood’s atmosphere, and her eyes no longer required the protection of tears. She could see her injury distinctly. Apart from the pain, it was not serious: that was plain. Her son’s-no, the croyel’s-dagger had skidded between the bones. It had missed the larger arteries and veins. She would not lose dangerous amounts of blood. If she survived Roger’s and the croyel’s intentions, any untainted application of Earthpower would heal her.
But she could not unclose her fingers from the Staff. The wound paralysed them: their nerves had shut down. And she had no attention to spare for them. Other exigencies consumed her.
She could see clearly; might never weep again. Nevertheless she made no attempt to stand. Instead she remained on her knees as though the croyel’s attack had accomplished its purpose.
Roger waited until Jeremiah had stepped back; resumed his pose of slack passivity. Then Covenant’s son jeered, “Shame on you, Dr. Avery. You should know this. The Theomach is a meddling asshole, but he doesn’t lie. And I told you the truth.
“Why did we need you? Because otherwise the Elohim would have stopped us. They’re terrified somebody is going to wake up the Worm of the World’s End. As long as we had the Sun-Sage, the Wildwielder”- he pronounced her titles contemptuously, scathing her- “they could convince themselves they didn’t need to do anything. They believe you’re going to protect the Arch and deal with Kastenessen, so why should they bother?
“No, Doctor. The question you should be asking is, why did we have to take you out of your own time to get what we wanted?” He paused, apparently expecting her to respond-or enjoying her helplessness. But she was not beaten: not yet. Her detachment defended her from the excruciation of Jeremiah’s dagger in her hand. And her son’s enslavement galvanised her. While Roger mocked her, she gathered herself.
He still had not explained why he-or his masters-considered it vital to keep her away from Andelain. The creature had attacked to distract her.
Apart from the claiming of your vacant son, I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events.
Goaded by her son’s suffering, Linden wanted to rage at Roger, This is all your doing. Kastenessen is in too much pain to think. Lord Foul isn’t willing to risk himself. And Esmer can’t pick a side. It’s on your head. Even your own mother-You’re responsible for all of it.
He had kidnapped her son; had dragged Jeremiah into the path of death.
But she remained where she knelt as if she were transfixed between her own agony and Jeremiah’s. She did not choose to waste the remnants of her will and courage on empty recrimination.
It was clear that Roger would not explain his fear of Andelain. She set that issue aside.
All right.” She did not raise her voice above a lorn whisper. She had no strength to spare. “Tell me, since that’s obviously what you want. Why did you take me out of my own time’?” “It’s complicated,” he said at once, gleefully. “Of course, we told you the truth. The EarthBlood really isn’t accessible where you belong. Elena’s battle with Kevin is going to tear this whole place apart. There won’t be anything left of this tunnel and that nice convenient trough.
“But Foul still wants to tear down the Arch of Time. He wants to escape. He wants revenge. And he’s tired of being defeated by my shit of a father. This way-” Roger cast another swath of fire and eagerness around the cave. “Dr. Avery, this way he can’t fail.
“First,” he explained as if he were proud of himself, “there was always the chance you might do something to violate Time. We gave you plenty of opportunities. If you did, good. We’d be spared the trouble of coming here. But if you didn’t, you still might trust us enough to let one of us drink first. Then we could Command the Worm to wake up.” He grinned ferociously. “Since you haven’t done either of those things, we can just kill you and drink anyway.
“But even if that doesn’t work-if we can’t kill you, which doesn’t seem very plausible under the circumstances-you’re still stuck here.” His halfhand blazed, casting familiar embers into his eyes. “Ten thousand years in your own past. With a Staff of Law. And my ring. Every breath you take is going to violate Time. And you can’t escape without a caesure.” He snarled a laugh. “I almost hope you survive so you can try that. Please. The Laws of Death and Life haven’t been damaged yet. You’ll shatter the world. But if you don’t, you’re still going to change everything.
“There’s more, of course, but I won’t bother you with it. Here’s the point. Frankly, Dr. Avery, ever since we got you away from your present, there haven’t been any possible outcomes that don’t give us exactly what we want. Plus, of course, we get to watch you cower. We get to watch you suffer for your poor kid. That alone makes all this trouble worthwhile.” Linden should have quailed. His certainty was as bitter as the touch of a Raver: it should have defeated her. But it did not. How often had she heard Lord Foul or his servants prophesy destruction, attempting to impose despair? And how often had Thomas Covenant shown her that it was possible to stand upright under the weight of utter hopelessness?
Still kneeling, feigning weakness, she protested. “You aren’t making sense.” Deliberately she let the pain in her hand leak into her voice. “You want to rouse the Worm. You want to break the Arch. But then you’ll be destroyed. Lord Foul can escape. You can’t. Why are you so eager to die?” “Well, it’s true,” Roger drawled
