Free The Last Dark by Stephen R. Donaldson Page A

the Lower Land. Perhaps it would shed some light into her as well.
    When she reached Mahrtiir, she said quietly, “Kevin’s Dirt is almost here. I hope that you’ll let me know when it starts to blind you. I’ll counteract it as much as I can. I don’t like the way the air feels. We’re going to need all the discernment we can get.”
    The Manethrall nodded. “Ringthane, I hear you. I cannot evade the approach of Kastenessen’s malevolence.” Bitterness whetted the edges of his voice. “It will make of me less than naught, a mere hindrance to my companions, as it did in the Lost Deep. Be assured that I will not scruple to seek your aid.”
    The promise appeared to cost him an effort of will or self-abnegation; but he spoke firmly, denying his pride.
    Linden rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment: a gesture of empathy to which he did not respond. Then she sighed, “All right. We have a lot to talk about. Maybe it’s time that we actually talked about it.”
    But she did not want to talk. She wanted to wait for the sun.
    “Like you, Linden Giantfriend,” Rime Coldspray offered, “we mislike the touch of this air. It speaks of forces which lie beyond our ken. Perils draw nigh which have heretofore remained distant.
    “Also the beings and powers which seek the World’s End remain unopposed. I am the Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. I speak for my comrades when I say that we must now choose a new heading. And we must not dally in doing so, lest forces which we cannot oppose overtake us.”
    Linden felt more than saw that night was ending. She smelled an easing of the dark. The first faint suggestion of daybreak drifted toward her from the east, riding the troubled breeze. But it did not dim the stars. Like the swift moil of Kevin’s Dirt, the approach of dawn seemed to etch the profuse glitter overhead more precisely against the fathomless abyss of the heavens.
    Still she wanted to see the sun. With her Staff, she was capable of much. At need, the ready wood would answer her call with fire and heat and even healing. But she could no longer summon illumination. Jeremiah might be able to do so, if his mastery of his new magicks continued to grow. Covenant’s ring would cast silver and peril in all directions if she forced herself to use it. But the stark ebony of her own access to Earthpower and Law precluded light.
    When the sun rose, the confused tangle of who she was and who she needed to be might begin to unravel like the recursive wards which had sealed the Lost Deep.
    Stalling, she said uncertainly, “We’ve been trusting the Ranyhyn. They’ve brought us this far. Maybe we should keep doing that.”
    But Manethrall Mahrtiir shook his head. “Ringthane, they are Ranyhyn.” She heard a note of finality or fatality in his voice. “They wield neither ancient lore nor mighty theurgies. They have borne many of our burdens. Doubtless they will bear more. But they cannot determine the Earth’s doom. The deeds required of us they cannot perform.
    “Also,” he added more sadly, “I sense no clear purpose among them. They are restive, truly, and urgent to do what they may. But they neither command nor encourage us to ride. Rather they abide their discomfort, hoping—or so I deem—that we will soon determine our own intents.”
    Now, Linden thought. Now the sun would show itself. Surely the east had begun to lighten? Certainly the funereal bindings of night had loosened their grip on the landscape. A kind of vagueness eroded the dark. In hints, the contours of the watercourse and the stream unveiled themselves. She could make out the Giants more clearly, starker shapes in the enshrouding gloom.
    “That’s all right, Mom,” Jeremiah put in, impatient for his chance to speak. “Like I told you, Infelice gave me an idea. I want to try it.”
    Linden avoided his gaze. “Can you wait a little longer, Jeremiah, honey? Just until sunrise?”
    “But—” he began, then stopped himself. Turning to the east,