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557 pages, Hardcover
First published October 15, 2013
Beckoning for Jeremiah to accompany her, Kindwind stepped away. When they had withdrawn a few paces, she said, “We must trust, Chosen-son, that his folk restore themselves in this manner. It appears that his spirit has turned inward. But I will believe that a man who has performed his feats must soon heal himself and return to us.”
Jeremiah swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “I hope so. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Ah, deserve,” sighed Kindwind. “The notion of deserved and undeserved is a fancy. Knowing both life and death, we endeavor to impose worth and meaning upon our deeds, and thereby to comfort our fear of impermanence. We choose to imagine that our lives merit continuance. Mayhap all sentience shares a similar fancy. Mayhap the Earth itself, being sentient in its fashion, shares it. Nonetheless it is a fancy. A wider gaze does not regard us in that wise. The stars do not. Perhaps the Creator does not. The larger truth is merely that all things end. By that measure, our fancies cannot be distinguished from dust.
“For this reason, Giants love tales. Our iteration of past deeds and desires and discoveries provides the only form of permanence to which mortal life can aspire. That such permanence is a chimera does not lessen its power to console. Joy is in the ears that hear.”
Her assertion startled Jeremiah. It seemed to question his foundations. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the extremity of Stave’s fall. The hard throb of Cabledarm’s bleeding and the excruciation of her shoulder cried out to his senses. Awkwardly he reached for Kindwind’s last waterskin. When she released it, he drank as if his thirst – his dismay – had the force of a moral convulsion.
“So you’re saying,” he protested or pleaded, “what Stave did is worthless? What Cabledarm did is worthless? It’s all dust?”
“Aye,” Cirrus Kindwind assented, “if that is how you choose to hear the tale.” Her tone was mild. “For myself, I will honor the effort and the intent. Doing so, I will be comforted.”
Jeremiah wanted to shout. Instead he fumed, “You sound like the croyel.” Was joy in the ears that hear? Then so were agony and horror. So was despair. “It was forever telling me everything Mom did was useless. Nothing matters. It’s all dust. That’s why Lord Foul laughs – and Roger – and those Ravers. They agree with you. In the end, they’re the only ones who get what they want.”
Kindwind looked at him sharply. Like the flick of a blade, she retorted, “Then her me, Chosen-son. Hear me well. There is another truth which you must grasp.
“Mortal lives are not stones. They are not seas. For impermanence to judge itself by the standards of permanence is folly. Or is it arrogance? Life merely is what it is, neither more nor less. To deem it less because it is not more is to heed the counsels of the Despiser.
“We do what we must so that we may find worth in ourselves. We do not hope vainly that we will put an end to pain, or to loss, or to death.”
Failure isn’t something you are. It’s something you do.
Without warning, Jeremiah found that he ached to share Kindwind’s beliefs, and Linden’s. Perhaps the monolith had never contained enough malachite. Perhaps the deposit had shattered. Perhaps Stave and even Cabledarm would die. Perhaps Mom would never come back. Perhaps futility was the only truth. Still Jeremiah would have to find a way to live with it.
To himself, he muttered, “It’s not that easy.”
Cirrus Kindwind had never been possessed.
Her response was a snort. “We were not promised ease. The purpose of life – if it may be said to have a purpose – is not ease. It is to choose, and to act upon the choice. In that task, we are not measured by outcomes. We are measured only by daring and effort and resolve.” [emphasis mine] (pp. 187-8)
Do you now discern truth? asked the Raver kindly, eagerly. Long have you striven to evade our intent, long and at great cost. Long have you concealed yourself from suffering, though your wounds festered with every avoided day. Do you now grasp that there can be no surcease or anodyne for an implement, except in its condign use? Do you comprehend that there is both freedom and exaltation in the acceptance of service?
This all true believers know. They submit every desire and gift to the will of beings greater than themselves, and by their surrender they gain redemption. Self-will accrues only fear. It achieves only pain. The highest glory is reached solely by the abdication of self.
Do you understand? Do you acknowledge at last that you are the Despiser’s beloved son, in whom he is well pleased? (p. 498)
Then Jesus, when He had been baptized, came up immediately from the water; and behold, the heavens were opened to Him, and He saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting upon Him.
And suddenly a voice came from heaven, saying, “This is my Beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” (NKJV)
With every slash and thrust, every frantic swing, he appalled himself. He had to goad himself with curses like groans in order to keep moving. Otherwise he would have plunged to his knees, crippled by abhorrence. The Cavewights were only simple in their thinking: they were not unintelligent. And they had a long history. On their own terms, they had a civilization. They had never deserved the use which Lord Foul had made of them. They did not deserve what Covenant did to them now.
He promised himself that the Despiser would pay for this; but no promise sufficed to condone such slaughter. (pp. 452-3)
But she could not keep meeting peril with violence, striving to out-do the savagery of Lord Foul’s servants and allies. She could not. She needed a different purpose, a better role in the Land’s fate. She had passed through the wrath of Gallows Howe to the gibbet’s deeper truths; to the vast bereavement which had inspired Garroting Deep’s thirst for blood. The time had come to heed the lessons which her whole life had tried to teach her.
If she did not give up, and did not fight, what remained? She thought that she knew, although she trembled to contemplate it; or she would have trembled had she been less weary. (p. 351)
She understood that now. She recognized, if the bane did not, that healing was both more arduous and more worthy than retribution. And sometimes healing required measures as extreme as the patient’s plight. Surgeons amputated or extirpated. They performed sacrifices. They transplanted. They did not judge the cost. They only did what they could. [emphasis mine] (p. 488)
Covenant grimaced. He almost smiled. “It’s easier than it looks. Or it’s harder. Or maybe it’s just worth the effort.” He ran his halfhand through his hair. “I don’t know how else to explain it. Lord Foul makes us strong.”
“Strong,” Jeremiah objected. “The Despiser? He would have slaughtered the whole world and laughed about it.”
“Well, sure,” Covenant shrugged. “But ask yourself why he’s like that. Berek said it. ‘Only the great of heart may despair greatly.’ All that malice and contempt is just love and hope and eagerness gone rancid. He’s the Creator’s curdled shadow. He –“
He grimaced again. “I’m not saying this right.
“He gives us the chance to do better.” (p. 527)
I read these because I enjoyed the first two Covenant series as a teenager, and I was sufficiently curious that I wanted to know what happened next. And what happens is generally interesting, although the ins and outs of who can and can't achieve things by means of magic at any particular time don't make a lot of sense. (Covenant, Linden, Jeremiah, the Elohim, and the various baddies all have stupendous powers at some times, and are comparatively helpless at other times.) But it's possible to suspend disbelief enough to enjoy the plot.
Similarly, the characters are fine. If you got to know Thomas, Linden, and the others in the first two series, you'll feel attached to them enough to want to follow their further development here. Also, the Haruchai and Giants develop too, and Stave is quite an interesting (and likeable) character. Sometimes they do things that don't make a lot of sense, but again, it's possible to suspend disbelief.
What I find to be unforgivable is the writing. First, it feels like you're wading through a tar pit, with all the "eldritch puissance", "verdant restitution", "palpable yet transient gloaming", "dire theurgies", "torrents of afflictions", and "rending scourges." (Barf.) I understand the intention is to convey an archaic feel, but I think Donaldson goes way, way overboard on this.
Second, Donaldson writes about every event and every thought running through the characters' heads as though it's of monumental importance. Pick a page, any page at random (as I just did), and you'll find stuff like this: "She had done and endured things which had shaken her heart to its foundations," "He had no language for the extremity of his heart," and "It was too urgent, full of need," plus many more. The overall effect on this reader, at least, is numbing: "yeah, yeah, whatever, get on with it." Skimming is mandatory; not that much happens, really, but there's an enormous amount of this kind of padding.
My final criticism is related to the previous one. A good author shows what a character is thinking rather than telling us explicitly. (Alice Munro is a master at this, for example.) In this book, perhaps even more than the previous ones in the series, there is no thought process of Covenant's, Linden's, or Jeremiah's that is too tedious not be detailed ad nauseam, and in momentous terms. Self-doubt is displayed in minute detail five times a minute. Spare me!
In short, I wish a better writer had transformed these last four novels into one short one. It would have saved me a lot of time and suffering. (Why did I bother, you ask? Good question.)
“And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us.”