Fatal Revenant

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Most of the villagers were engaged in a confusion of tasks: cooking and eating; tending their children and their injured; searching their stricken homes for blankets, food, and raiment. But Liand was limned in sunlight. His high seat on his mount, and the youthful gravity of his demeanor, gradually drew the attention of the tree-dwellers. Silence spread across the camp as more and more people stopped what they were doing to gaze at him.

  When he began to speak, he did not shout. In that way, he gathered his audience around him. Linden herself rode closer, accompanied by the Ramen and Stave. She needed Liand. Until she knew what he intended, she wanted to be near enough to intervene.

  “Woodhelvennin, hear me,” he called quietly. “We are scantly acquainted, yet you know me well. You have beheld me in the nature of my deeds, as you have in the valor of my companions. And you have heard me speak of the reasons for our presence among you. We must now part. The needs which compel Linden Avery the Chosen are many and urgent. But I am loath to ride from you without sharing the greatest of the benisons which I have gained in her company.”

  Sighing, Linden let herself relax. When she touched Pahni’s shoulder, she found that the young Cord also felt relieved. Liand did not mean to offer up his life. He was simply too sensitive and generous to leave the villagers as they were.

  “It has been given to me,” he explained. “to discern a Land which lies unseen within the lives that we have known.” To Linden, his voice sounded like the rising of the sun. His sincerity was as nourishing as sunshine. “In its unshrouded form, the Land is a place of marvels beyond imagining, and I have been enabled to partake in its mysteries. This gift, which Linden Avery names ‘health-sense,’ I would grant to you, as it has been granted to me, if you will honor me with its acceptance.

  “But it is not a gentle gift,” he warned the villagers, “and its cost is pain and loss, anger and sorrow. Some of you have felt the healing of hurtloam and know the gift of which I speak. Others know it because you have been brought back from death by fire. When you touched the eldritch sand, or were laved in flames, your eyes were opened. All of your senses were opened as they have not been opened before. You became able to see truly, and all that you beheld was transformed.”

  Karnis, Quilla, and a number of the Woodhelvennin nodded. The rest regarded Liand with perplexed frowns.

  “For a time,” he said in sunlight, “you recognized the transcendence of that which you had deemed commonplace. Yet now your awareness of transcendence is gone. The Land has become what it was. You have become what you were. And you are no longer content.

  “Others among you know nothing of this. If you inquire of those who comprehend my words, you will find them bewildered, unable to convey what they have witnessed, or what they have lost. They cannot name the cause of their sadness and ire.”

  Again the healed, the Heers, and those who had carried hurtloam nodded, grateful to hear their innominate grief described.

  Now Liand raised his voice. Still he did not shout; but he spoke in bright tones that sent a shiver through Linden’s heart. Pahni’s eyes shone, and Mahrtiir heard the Stonedownor with his chin raised as though Liand had made him proud.

  “Nevertheless I say to you that what they have tasted and lost is your birthright. It is the essential spirit of the Land, inherent to all that lives, and you have been made blind to it. For many generations, you have been deprived of the deepest truth of who and what and where you are.

  “It is my wish to grant unto you, all of you, the gift that I have been given. I wish to share my vision of your birthright.”

  There the Humbled or Vernigil might have interrupted him. But none of them betrayed any reaction. Perhaps their silence acknowledged an irreducible truth: whether Linden succeeded or failed, nothing in the Land would remain unchanged.

  She had accomplished that much, at least, Linden thought grimly. Liand could speak without fear. For the present, at least, the service of the Masters had ceased to be a general prohibition. Now it was focused almost exclusively on her.

  You hold great powers. Yet if we determine that we must wrest them from you, do you truly doubt that we will prevail?

  If the day ever came when the Humbled decided to oppose her, every Master in the Land would become her enemy.

  “But in all sooth,” the Stonedownor continued, “it is not a gentle gift, and you will not bless me for it. In itself, it is wondrous beyond telling. While it remains to you, you will be exalted. But it will be fleeting. And when it drains away, you will be left in sorrow. Nor will you be able to regain any portion of what you have lost.

  “Why, then, do I offer this increase of woe? Your destination is Revelstone, the seat and habitation of the Masters. There you will find some small safety in a world which has become perilous beyond your knowledge. And there, if you desire it, you may reclaim my gift. Above Revelstone lies a plateau, and the plateau holds Glimmermere, a lake munificent to restore your birthright. It is a theriac for the bane which has made both you and the Land appear to be less than you are.

  “Yet Revelstone is distant,” he said as if he were arguing against himself, “and your path will be arduous. You will not soon know my gift again.

  “It is here.” Reaching into the pouch at his waist, Liand drew out the orcrest and held it high. In his grasp, it shone like a beacon, as white as refined daylight, and as clear as the purest gem. “If you desire to know the savor and bereavement of your birthright, approach me. If you do not, withdraw.

  “Yet hear me nonetheless. Your losses have been cruel. They may worsen in your journey, or within Revelstone. Still I believe that you will not regret my gift. To know your birthright is precious, even when that birthright is denied. And if Linden Avery the Chosen does not fail in her quest, your birthright will one day be restored to all the folk of the Land.”

  Linden was not surprised when most of the Woodhelvennin surged forward, crowding into the brightness around Rhohm and Liand as though the Sunstone’s radiance offered meaning to their lives. She would have done the same in their place, if Liand’s generosity could have eased her irreconciled heart.

  With tears in her eyes, Pahni murmured. “For this he has become my love.”

  Nodding, Mahrtiir announced, “He reveals a greater heritage than he comprehends. In the tales of the Ramen, the ancient Lords had such stature, humble in their glory, and open-hearted to every need. Yet he is more. He has touched the lore of the rhadhamaerl. After uncounted generations of diminishment, he is the first true Stonedownor among his kind.”

  “Aye,” assented Bhapa gruffly. “I am Ramen, and do not lightly avow that he has surpassed me.”

  But Stave said without inflection. “That is his peril. Corruption delights in the ruin of such innocence.”

  Linden turned away. She could feel health-sense and excitement effloresce among the Woodhelvennin as the hindering brume of Kevin’s Dirt was swept aside by Earthpower and Liand’s courage. Like Pahni and the Manethrall, she was proud of him. Like Stave, she feared for him. But she was also ashamed.

  If Linden Avery the Chosen does not fail in her quest—

  Her mere presence among the villagers was a promise which she did not know how to keep.

  8.

  Salva Gildenbourne

  I am able to convey you to your son.

  The Harrow’s parting words were a knell in Linden’s heart. While the glory of Liand’s orcrest washed over the villagers, she rode away from the crowd and the shattered remnants of First Woodhelven; from her friends. Doubt-ridden, and haunted by her dreams, she wanted to be alone with Hyn.

  She did not understand how the Ramen seemed to know what the Ranyhyn wanted or intended: she could not even guess how the Ramen knew the names of the great horses. Nevertheless a form of communion existed between the Ramen and the Ranyhyn. She had tasted that bond herself during the horserite which she had shared with Hyn, Hynyn, and Stave. At need, Hyn never failed to grasp what Linden desired of her—and to obey.

 
; Impelled by fears and yearning, Linden guided the mare a short distance away from her companions. There, bending low over Hyn’s neck and whispering so that she would not be overheard, she asked the Ranyhyn to take her to Jeremiah.

  She felt the mare’s muscles quiver in willingness or trepidation. Hyn shifted her hooves restively, tossed her head, then shook it from side it side. She stood where she was.

  Trying to be clear, Linden took Jeremiah’s toy from her pocket and clenched it in her fist. Then she closed her eyes and visualized her son, not as she had known and loved him in their former life together, but as she had last seen him under Melenkurion Skyweir, with the croyel clinging savagely to his back; debased by the creature’s bitter theurgy. She formed his image in precise detail and offered it to Hyn, silently pleading with the Ranyhyn.

  Still the mare did not move.

  Then Mahrtiir came to Linden’s side, and to Hyn’s, drawn by his sensitivity to Linden, or by his instinctive rapport with the Ranyhyn. Murmuring, he gentled the mare until she no longer trembled.

  “Do not misunderstand, Ringthane,” he urged Linden gruffly. “Hyn is valorous in all things. She would bear you into any of the Seven Hells, as she has into the horror of caesures. But she does not know where your son may be found. Mayhap she is able to discern the nature of his hiding place or prison, but she cannot determine its location. Therefore she shies from your desire.

  “The son of the former Ringthane is present in this time. For that reason, I deem that your son is likewise present. As you have described them, the powers of both the halfhand and the croyel were required to elude the Law of Time. Therefore the halfhand’s evil assures us that your son has not been secreted in some other age. He does not lie beyond your reach. But Hyn cannot pierce his concealment.”

  Linden sighed. “I didn’t really expect it to work.” If she could have found her son simply by asking the Ranyhyn to aid her, the Harrow would have no leverage with her—and Roger and Esmer would have no reason to fear that she might strike a bargain with the Insequent. “I just had to try.”

  The Manethrall seemed to study her through his bandage. “Indeed, Ringthane. Who would comprehend, if I do not? Against the Cavewights, I did not expect to retain my life. Yet I could not decline to give battle. It is ever thus. Attempts must be made, even when there can be no hope. The alternative is despair. And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us. Expecting death, I have sacrificed only my sight.

  “Therein lay Kevin Landwaster’s error—aye, and great Kelenbhrabanal’s also. When all hope was gone, they heeded the counsels of despair. Had they continued to strive, defying their doom, some unforeseen wonder might have occurred. And if it did not, still their glory would have surpassed their failure.”

  “I know,” Linden murmured: a dying fall of sound. “The world is full of Kastenessens and Rogers.” Esmers and Joans, croyel and Cavewights. “Lord Foul is everywhere. But there are still people like Liand.” And the Mahdoubt. “Stave is on our side. The ur-viles have changed. Even the Sandgorgons—” In spite of samadhi Raver’s shredded malignance, they had retained enough gratitude to answer her. “I’ll try anything to save Jeremiah.”

  She meant her assertion as a warning, but she lacked the courage to speak more clearly. She was afraid that Mahrtiir—that all of her friends—would attempt to stop her.

  As matters stood, she did not know the difference between the Manethrall’s advice and the counsels of despair.

  To her relief, Liand did not take long to cleanse the senses of those Woodhelvennin who desired his gift. Although his efforts left his skin pale with weariness, and he wavered on Rhohm’s back, breathing raggedly, he was still able to ride. When he swayed too far, Pahni steadied him.

  Now none of Linden’s companions urged caution. The time had come for haste. She needed it; and the villagers would be safer when she was far from them. Her friends delayed only to consider the pane of slate which had protected Anele.

  Clyme asserted his willingness to carry it—or to make the attempt—regardless of his hurts and renewed bleeding. But Linden shook her head. “It’s too heavy,” she stated as though she had the authority to command the Humbled. “It’ll get in your way if we’re attacked again. We’ll try blankets. Five or six of them might be enough to block Kastenessen.”

  For a moment, the Masters appeared to debate their responsibilities. Then Clyme abandoned the slate.

  At a word from the Heers, grateful villagers hurried to gather blankets, which they tied into a roll and handed to Pahni.

  With difficulty, Linden held back her impatience as Karnis and Quilla endeavored to express their thanks for all that she and her companions had done. But the Heers were among those who had been blessed or afflicted with percipience: they could see how she felt. Seeming flustered by her frustration, they cut short what they wished to say.

  On Linden’s behalf, and Liand’s, Manethrall Mahrtiir responded to the Heers; but he spoke curtly. “It is sooth that Liand of Mithil Stonedown has granted no gentle gift. Also it is sooth that neither kresh nor Cavewights would have assailed you in our absence. Our aid is small recompense for the harm which we have brought among you.

  “The Master Vernigil will guide you. While it endures, your new sight will serve you well. May you fare in safety. Beyond question, you will fare more safely for our departure.”

  At last, Linden and her companions turned away, leaving silence and uncertainty behind them. With Mahrtiir beside her, Pahni, Liand, and Anele following, and Stave in the rear, she rode after Bhapa and the Humbled at a brisk canter which Hyn and the other Ranyhyn soon stretched into a rolling gallop.

  For a time, they traversed rough hills of flint and shale. But then stones and scant dirt gave way to better soil as more streams traced their crooked paths across the landscape; and the riders began to encounter occasional clusters of aliantha. Linden called a halt at the first of these so that Liand could restore his depleted strength.

  When she dismounted to join him, she noticed the marks of other hooves. To her questioning glance, Pahni replied that the Humbled and Bhapa had paused here as well.

  Privately Linden hoped that the Masters were not too proud to avail themselves of treasure-berries. They were in no condition to face another conflict. They needed as much sustenance as their stubbornness could accept.

  “To this place,” Pahni added, studying the ground, “they rode together. Now, however, they have separated. Mhornym and Rohnhyn continue southeastward, but Bhanoryl’s path lies to the east, and Naybahn has turned to the south. Doubtless they will guard our passage at the farthest extent of their senses.”

  Linden nodded. Remembering Cail and Brinn, Ceer and Hergrom, she trusted the Humbled to protect her company as well as they could.

  When Liand had eaten a handful of aliantha, and had recovered enough to whisper something playful that made Pahni smile and duck her head, Linden and her friends remounted. Together the Ranyhyn resumed their run, devouring the distance at a long gallop.

  Before noon, the hills faded into a wide plain like a steppe lambent with grasses and bright wildflowers. Birds scattered in waves before the rush of the riders, the muffled rumble of hooves. At intervals, Linden and her companions passed a small stand of wattle or scrub oak; splashed through a rambling stream or sprang over a sun-spangled rill; swept down into a shallow swale and flowed up the far side. But such features were few. Between them, the plain unfurled itself to the horizons as if the earth had opened its heart to the sun. There the Ranyhyn seemed to run effortlessly, buoyed by the grass and the vast sky as if they were born to revel in grasslands and illimitable vistas.

  For a while, Linden caught no glimpse of the Humbled and Bhapa. Under the midday sun, however, she eventually saw Clyme waiting ahead of her. Apparently he had decided that the time had come to rest the Ranyhyn while their riders ate a quick meal.

  His bleeding had stopped. Aided, perhaps, by treasure-berries, his native toughness had reasserted itself. Even while he
rode, his wounds healed slowly.

  Before Pahni and Liand allowed Anele to dismount, Linden took a moment to study the grass. All around her, many varieties grew together. Some resembled the lush wealth of the Verge of Wandering. But among more luxuriant greens were streaks and swaths of the raw-edged scrub grass which covered the hills and slopes of the Mithil valley: the grass on which the old man was vulnerable to Lord Foul.

  Here Anele needed protection.

  Instead of insisting that he remain on Hrama, she decided to test the effectiveness of the blankets. At her request, Pahni unrolled the thick pad and guided Anele onto it from Hrama’s back.

  Warded by wool, the old man showed no sign of possession. His fractured muttering was disturbed only by his discomfort at Clyme’s nearness.

  The horizons remained clear. When Linden questioned Clyme, he reported no indication of danger. He and Bhapa had found evidence of Roger’s army’s trek toward First Woodhelven. For a time, Galt had been able to track Roger and his remaining Cavewights eastward. But nothing stirred to threaten the riders—unless it was concealed by the glamour which had enabled Roger’s forces to take Linden’s company by surprise.

  She might have felt relief. Perhaps she should have. Apparently Roger was indeed reduced without the aid and knowledge of the croyel. Alone, he could not simply bypass time or space: he was forced to travel by more ordinary means.

  But his limitations confirmed that he had set out to intercept her several days before Kastenessen had touched Anele. Conceivably Roger had begun to lead his army westward as soon as he and Jeremiah had returned to their proper time. Kastenessen may have precipitated Roger’s attack; but Roger and his forces must have already been poised to strike. Hidden by glamour—extending as it does to conceal so many—he must have been waiting for her along her most direct route toward Andelain.

  She had told him what her intentions were; forewarned him—