Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant 02 - Fatal Revenant

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Survive her presence—? That made no sense. She posed no threat to such creatures. Even Covenant’s plans would not affect the fate of the Viles. Heeding the Ravers, they had decided their own doom.

  Is that cause for regret? multifarious voices countered in visions, pictographs, as ultimate as ebony. It is not. We are not what we were.

  And she is a lover of trees. Another Vile—or the same Vile in another avatar. Let her destroy them as she does us. She will reproach herself hereafter. We will be spared.

  Spared? Linden saw indignation. Do you name extinction “spared”?

  We do. Existence is tedium. Naught signifies. What are we, that we should seek to prolong it?

  A lover of trees. In spite of her fragmentation, the reiteration of that accusation touched something deep within her, some delitescent capacity for passion and choice. She was Linden Avery, a lover of trees in all sooth. Long ago, her health-sense had opened her to the vital loveliness of the woods and blooms and greenswards of Andelain. Their beauty had exalted her when she had taken hold of Vain and Findail with wild magic in order to fashion a new Staff of Law. Now she grasped that Staff in her mortal hands.

  Because she was who she was, and did not mean to fail, she opened her mouth so that a shape could emerge into the swirling, interwoven gloom. It formed a yellow moiré, oneiric and tenuous.

  “Why?”

  In response, she smelled surprise. As it bled across her senses, its tang was unmistakable.

  She speaks, one or all of the Viles displayed across her vision. And one or several replied, What of it? It is not lore. And again: Ignorance and falsehood guide her kind. Their boredom reeked. It was ever so. They are a pestilence which the Earth endures solely because their lives are brief.

  Were the Viles lofty and admirable? Perhaps they had once been. Perhaps they remained so. In the texture and hue of their voices, however, Linden discerned the black urgings of moksha, turiya, and samadhi.

  They also do not concern us.

  Under other circumstances, she might have been appalled. Now she was not. She had uttered a single word—and the Viles had heard her.

  “Why?” she repeated. Her voice was fulvous in the imposed twilight; tinged with brimstone. “Why are you here? Why do you care? This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

  Another scend of surprise stung her nose, her eyes. Tears ran like stridulation down her cheeks.

  She does not merely speak. She speaks to us. She desires to be heard.

  What of it? they answered themselves in knots and coils of darkness. She holds great powers without lore. No word of hers has meaning here.

  Have done with this, several Viles urged at once. Extinguish her. Her life does not profit us.

  Others disagreed. She saw their severity as they answered, When power speaks, it is wisdom to give heed.

  And still others: When have we ever done otherwise? And others, contemptuously: In what fashion does unexercised power imply wisdom?

  Their debate made her stronger. She held the Staff of Law. And they were divided in their desires. They were Viles, on the cusp of learning to despise themselves.

  The Elohim considered her the Wildwielder. If they were right, the Viles should have feared her. She might bring Time and all existence to an end.

  “You can hear me,” she pronounced, speaking now in lambent chrysoprase and jacinth rather than saffron blots. “I deserve an answer. If you think that you have the right to destroy me, you owe me an explanation. I haven’t done anything to you. I wouldn’t harm you if I could.

  “Why are you here?”

  Semiprecious gems winked and hinted among the streaming tendrils. Then they were gone.

  We will not heed her. Disdain and scruples crept over her skin. We must.

  Before she could insist on a reply, all or several or one of the Viles stated in stark obsidian, Lover of trees, we are here because the others exert hazardous theurgies—and you permit them, holding powers which have no need of theirs. Your folly compels us. The wood that you claim must defy them, yet it does not.

  Simultaneously other avatars proclaimed, You strive toward Melenkurion Skyweir and the Power of Command. But the master of white gold has no use for the EarthBlood, and its Power cannot Command wild magic.

  You serve a purpose not your own, and have no purpose.

  The voices daunted her. Her commingled senses confounded her. The Viles knew too much; and yet they did not know enough to recognize their true peril. Nor could they comprehend her love for her son. They were not mortal.

  We will not survive—

  The wood that you claim must defy them—

  They had answered her. Yet they had not told her what she wanted to know.

  Shaping her bafflement into a form of persistence, she said. “No. Not that.” Now the words emerged as emerald and malachite; reified consternation. “I’ve already told you. That doesn’t have anything to do with you.

  “Why are you here? In this part of the Land? You live in the Lost Deep.” In caverns as ornate and majestic as castles. “If you weren’t so far from where you belong, you wouldn’t know or care about us.”

  There they devoted their vast power and knowledge to the making of beauty and wonder, and all of their works were filled with loveliness.

  Covenant and Jeremiah may have continued calling to her, but she could not feel their voices.

  This time, the surprise of the Viles smelled of decay and old rot; moldering. She has lore. To assume ignorance misleads us.

  She does not, they declared scornfully. No mere human knows of our demesne.

  Separately and in unison, one at a time, together, they announced, She has been taught. Advised. Therefore she hazards devastation.

  Therefore, they concluded, she must be answered.

  Therefore, they also decided, she must not.

  Their darkness gathered until it threatened to blot out the sun. Are we not Viles? Do we fear her? If they chose to extinguish her, they would be able to do so. The bewilderment of her senses left her vulnerable.

  When she fell, they might claim Covenant’s ring—

  Yet she saw them pronounce clearly, We do not.

  We do not, they agreed. We also have been advised.

  Their ire and assent as they answered her smelled as mephitic as a charnel. Lover of trees, they flared like a plunge into a chasm, lightless and unfathomable, we have learned that this remnant of forest despises us. Its master considers us with disdain. We have come to discover the cause of his contumely. We have done naught to merit opprobrium among the woodlands.

  Linden might have been horrified; incapable of argument. But Esmer had prepared her for this. That which appears evil need not have been so from the beginning, and need not remain so until the end. Hidden among his betrayals were gifts as precious as friendship.

  In shapes as ready as knives, colors as obdurate as travertine, she countered. “That’s a lie. You were ‘advised.’ You said so. By the Ravers. But they didn’t tell you the truth. These trees don’t despise you. They’re too busy grieving. It’s humans they hate. My kind. Not yours.”

  “Damnation,” said Covenant in a visceral mutter, a sensation of squirming across Linden’s defenseless skin. “She’s trying to reason with them.”

  “I told you.” Jeremiah’s voice made no sound, but she could see it. It was crimson, the precise hue of blood; bright with disgust and grudging admiration. “I remember her. She doesn’t give up.”

  “Then we’ll have to do it.” Covenant’s reply itched like swarming ants. “Get ready.”

  Linden’s heart yearned for her companions. But she ignored them. She could not reach them now. Surrounded by Viles and implicit death, she had brought herself to a precipice, and could only keep her balance or die.

  The makers of the Demondim might resolve their hermetic debate by snuffing out her life. But the risks if she swayed them were no less extreme. Contradicting the seductions of the Ravers, she might irretrievably alte
r the Land’s history. A cascade of consequences might spread throughout time. If the Viles did not learn to loathe themselves, they would not create the Demondim—who would in turn not create—

  With every word, she risked the Arch of Time.

  Nevertheless she did not allow herself to hesitate or falter. Here, at least, she believed that calamity was not inevitable. The Law of Time opposed its own disintegration. And the effects of what she did might well prove temporary. Her arguments might do nothing more than delay the gradual corruption of the Viles.

  The wood that you claim must defy them, yet it does not.

  “Sure,” she continued as though her companions had not spoken, “the Forestal is angry. His trees have been slaughtered. But his rage isn’t aimed at you. If you don’t threaten Garroting Deep, he won’t even acknowledge that you’re here.”

  Risking everything, uttering sulfur and incarnadine to the gloom, she averred, “You’ve been lied to. You’re being manipulated. The Ravers hate trees. They want you to do the same. Not because they care about you. Not because you’re in any danger. They just want you to start hating.” Extinguishing. “If you do that enough, you’ll end up just like them.”

  All contempt turns upon the contemptuous, as it must.

  For an immeasurable time, the Viles were silent. Linden felt serpentine darkness coil and twist around her, a nest of snakes and self-dissent; smelled subterranean stone and dust, caves so old and deeply buried that they may have been airless. Get ready. Jeremiah and Covenant had reached a decision, but it lay beyond her discernment. Sensory confusion cut her off from everything except the hollow and the dusk.

  Then all or some of the black tendrils repeated, She has lore. And others insisted, It is not lore. It is given knowledge. She has been taught. She merely holds powers which surpass her.

  They debated among themselves, gathering vehemence with every assertion. Then the others must concern us.

  They do not. They are no mystery to us.

  This contention is foolish. The fierceness of the voices blinded Linden. She no longer saw sounds: she felt them. They scraped along her skin like the teeth of a rasp. We cannot accuse her. She has spoken sooth. We also are moved by given knowledge. Have we not heeded those who report that we are despised?

  We have. What of that? We seek only comprehension. The intent of her companions is far otherwise. And she consents by withholding her strength. For that reason, we confront her.

  Unrestrained anger. For that reason, she must be extinguished.

  Stern contradiction. For that reason, she must be understood. Her inaction requires justification.

  As one, the voices turned against Linden. Give answer, lover of trees. Why do you permit the purposes of the others, when you have no need of it?

  There her determination stumbled. The Viles’ question was more fatal than their ire. In this circumstance, her mind cannot be distinguished from the Arch of Time. How could she explain herself without violating the strictures of history? Her choices could only be justified by events which had not yet occurred; events which would not occur for thousands of years. If she answered, the repercussions would exceed any hope of containment.

  Desperately she countered the challenge of the Viles with one of her own.

  “You aren’t thinking clearly. You’ve got it backward. Before you question me, you have to question yourselves. Why do you listen to Ravers? Don’t you realize that they’re lying? Beings like you?” Lofty and admirable—“I can’t answer you if you aren’t able to recognize the difference between truth and lies.”

  Instantly the twilight grew darker. She saw only stark ebony as if it were the benighted hearts of the Viles. The scents of offal and new blood and repudiation were flung into her face. The ground under her boots thrummed as though the bones of the Last Hills had begun to vibrate. The taste of dead branches and twigs filled her mouth, as bright as brass.

  Voices clawed at her skin. She dares to speak so. To us. When they replied to themselves, they spoke in fangs. Yet she speaks sooth. We have heeded that which desires only slaughter.

  We seek comprehension.

  We seek meaning. Our lives are sterile.

  Nonetheless their vehemence no longer threatened Linden. Their conflict did not include her. If she felt savaged by it, that was a side effect of their black theurgy.

  They uttered falsehood. What of that? they countered. They also spoke sooth.

  Truth may mask lies. It may mislead.

  Yet it was indeed sooth. Was it not? Have we not acknowledged that it was?

  We have. We were informed without chicane that we are self-absorbed spectres, affectless and wasted. The loveliness we devise and adore is without meaning or purpose. Our lore is great, and our strength dire, yet we are but playthings for ourselves. This is sooth. We have acknowledged it.

  Linden groaned. She flinched at the touch of every claw and tooth. There could be no question about it: the Ravers had been at work. She recognized their malignancy, their acid gall.

  And have we not also acknowledged that therefore we may be deemed paltry by the wider world? Have we not come to this place seeking truth? Is not our first purpose to determine if the Forestal indeed views us with scorn? Only when that is known can we consider the cause of his scorn.

  Yet is not our reasoning flawed, as the lover of trees has proclaimed?

  She is specious. Unjustified. Her own reasoning is flawed.

  No, she wanted to protest. No. Everything that you heard from those Ravers was a lie. Even if it sounded like the truth. You can’t listen—

  But she had no voice and no will: she hardly seemed to think. The mounting debate left her mute as well as blind; nearly insensate. She had come to the end of words as though it were the end of worlds.

  Agreed, the Viles continued, scoring her flesh, rending her courage. Yet our reasoning is also flawed. We acknowledge that we are self-absorbed and affectless. But we mislead ourselves if we conclude that therefore we are deemed paltry. The attitude of the wider world cannot be inferred from the disdain of those whom she names Ravers.

  No. We have not erred in that fashion. We have come to this woodland that we might distinguish truth from falsehood.

  We have erred in precisely that fashion. We have come to this woodland expecting to discover that we are scorned. We have been taught scorn for ourselves. Is this wisdom? Is it just? Do we merit disdain because we have clung to loveliness, ignoring the concerns of the Earth?

  That’s it! Linden fought to say; to confirm. That’s what the Ravers want—scorn for ourselves. But still she could not speak. Somehow the Viles had silenced her. They would not permit her to intrude on their dissension.

  When she felt Covenant’s voice roar through her clothes, “Now, Linden! Run!” she did not hesitate, although she could not tell where she was and had no idea where she was going.

  She feared a collision with the upthrust stones; feared falling; feared the outrage of the Viles. She could hardly be certain that she still held the Staff of Law. Every step carried her from nothing to nothing. Under her feet, the packed dirt sounded as unsteady as water: it felt as suffocating as a cave-in. Nevertheless she attempted to flee, seeking the tone or scent of higher ground.

  For an instant, she thought that she heard the Viles muster black madness against her. But then a gap opened in her writhing paresthesia. Through it, she felt Covenant hurl a torrent of heat and fire down into the hollow, power as liquid as magma, and as destructive. At the same time, Jeremiah’s unexplained magic gathered until it seemed to tower over the forest. Then it crashed like a shattered wall down onto the trees of the Deep.

  Chaos erupted among the Viles: rage and force virulent enough to strip flesh from bones. Simultaneously, however, the disruption faded from Linden’s senses, swept aside by Covenant’s fire, or by the horrendous response of the Demondim-makers. In that swift rush of clarification, time and her frantic breathing and even the urgent throb of her heart: all seemed to stop at once
.

  In tiny increments, minuscule fragments of infinity, she saw the hillside under her feet; saw herself striving to run diagonally up the slope toward Covenant and Jeremiah; saw the Staff clenched in her urgent fist. Above her, Covenant faced the Viles with heat spouting viciously from his halfhand. While she watched, the creatures parted like mist to evade his attack, then swirled together to concentrate their corrosive theurgy.

  A mere shard of an instant later, she saw Jeremiah standing near Covenant with his back to the Viles, flinging repulsion like frenetic blows into Garroting Deep. Exposed. Defenseless—

  The sides of the hollow blocked Linden’s view of the Deep. Nevertheless she felt as well as heard an abrupt cavalcade of music among the trees.

  It shocked her; held her nearly immobile in mid-stride while slivers of time accumulated to create a single moment. The leaves sang a myriad-throated melody of ineffable loveliness while the twigs and boughs contributed chords of aching harmony and the trunks added a chaconne as poignant as a lament. Each note seemed as pristine and new as the first dew of springtime, dulcet as daisies, thorny as briars. Together the thousands upon thousands of notes fashioned a song of such heartbreaking beauty that Linden would have wept to hear it if she had not been trying feverishly to run—and if her companions had not stood in the path of havoc.

  Within the profound glory of the music lay a savage power. Her nerves were stunned by the sheer magnitude of the magic which the singing summoned. It was not merely beauty and grief: it was also a tsunami of rage. Somewhere beyond the hillside, Caerroil Wildwood must have come to the verge of the Deep; and there he sang devastation for every living being that opposed him.

  Separately the Viles and the Forestal were potent enough to banish Covenant and her son, her son. Together their energies would rend both of her loves. Jeremiah and Covenant would not simply disappear: they would perish utterly.

  Without Covenant’s support, the Arch of Time itself might be undone.