Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant 02 - Fatal Revenant

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Although several of the other Masters emanated indignation, Handir did not appear offended. Instead he nodded as if to acknowledge that the Manethrall had made a valid point. Linden gnawed her lip while Handir remained silent, presumably communing with the Haruchai in the forehall.

  For no apparent reason, Anele stated. “Anele does not fear horses. He does not fear the dark ones. He fears them.”

  Then the Voice of the Masters spoke. “Linden Avery,” he said as if words uttered aloud had become awkward for him, “you have healed Stave. The Humbled remain hampered by injury.”

  He may have been asking her to disavow Stave’s test of truth.

  If so, he had misjudged her. Stave had sacrificed his bond with his own sons for her sake. In spite of her apprehension, she replied. “And he only has one eye. I call that even.”

  In any case, the hurts of the Humbled were superficial. And Stave had blows to repay—

  “Linden,” breathed Liand, warning her. You have it within you—

  For a few heartbeats, Handir resumed his silence. Then he shifted his stance to address everyone around him.

  “It is decided,” he said rigidly. “Both tests have merit. Neither suffices.

  “However, we do not desire Linden Avery’s enmity. Nor do we intend any slight to the Ramen, or to the majesty of the Ranyhyn. And the Humbled must be heeded. Therefore both tests will be essayed in turn. If Stave withstands each of the Humbled, Linden Avery will then summon the Ranyhyn, as the Manethrall has urged. If Stave falls, no summons will be countenanced.”

  After a brief pause, he continued, “It is in my heart, however, that such trials resolve naught.” Again his manner or his tone seemed to imply a veiled sorrow. “Conceding them, we accept only the hazard of greater uncertainty, for the strictures of our service will not be set aside. If Linden Avery’s release is won, we will be compelled to consider whether we have damned the Land. Yet if Stave or the Ranyhyn fail her, she will not thereby be persuaded to accept our Mastery. Rather the darkness within her will deepen. And Desecration may be wrought as readily in Revelstone as in Kiril Threndor. Thus will we again be compelled to consider whether we have damned the Land.

  “I am Handir, by right of years and attainment the Voice of the Masters. I have spoken. But my words will bear no sweet fruit. Rather they will ripen to gall and rue.”

  When he was finished, he and the other Masters immediately withdrew, leaving only Galt, Clyme, and Branl between Linden’s company and the clenched gates. Clearly Handir intended the tests to begin at once.

  Hugging the Staff harder, Linden tried to breathe as if she were calm. She was not sure that she could bear to see Stave beaten again.

  While Stave advanced to confront the Humbled, Mahrtiir and Liand stood with Linden. “Gall and rue are the inescapable outcome of your Mastery,” the Manethrall said to Handir. “Do not complain of them here, where those who seek to preserve the Land wish only to do so without opposition.”

  Then he whispered privately to Linden. “I proposed a test of the Ranyhyn hoping to spare Stave. He has been harmed in both body and spirit, and I feared for him. It was not my intent to hamper you, Ringthane.”

  “I know,” she murmured tensely. “I’m scared, too. If they hurt him again, I don’t know how I’m going to forgive myself. But I just don’t have any better ideas.”

  “Ah, Stave,” sighed Liand. “Now I am truly shamed that I have thought and spoken ill of you.”

  As one, Stave and the Humbled bowed to each other with ritual formality. Then Branl and Clyme retreated to clear a space for Galt and Stave.

  Involuntarily Linden remembered another battle in this place. When Nom had broken the inner gates, she and Covenant had entered the forehall with Sunder and Hollian, a few Giants, and a small company of Haruchai. Here they had fought desperately against the Clave, Coursers, and the na-Mhoram’s Grim. Old frenzy, terror, and bloodshed seemed to harry her now, as bleak as Handir’s omens.

  So suddenly that she nearly gasped, Galt struck. Blood still crusted his hands and feet. Nonetheless he launched a blow swift and hard enough to crush the blinded side of Stave’s face.

  Stave had said that he did not wish to cause harm. Plainly Galt’s intentions were more extreme. He seemed to want to eradicate Stave from his sight.

  The lamps and torches provided light in abundance. Yet Linden could not distinguish the vicious blur of Galt’s punch from the details of Stave’s response. She saw only that Stave remained poised in front of Galt’s fist—and then he stood behind the Humbled with his hands on Galt’s shoulders. With delicate precision, he kicked away one of Galt’s feet and jerked the Humbled backward.

  Galt fell: he could not prevent it. But as he fell, he twisted in the air; caught hold of Stave’s tunic; tried to wrench Stave down with him.

  Stave countered by letting himself drop so that his knees landed heavily on Galt’s ribs. With his arms braced against Galt’s grasp, Stave kept his balance so that no part of him except his feet touched the floor.

  A wince of shock or chagrin flashed over Galt’s features and vanished. For an instant, Linden feared that the Humbled would refuse to cede defeat; that he would attempt to roll Stave into a fall. Instead, however, Galt released Stave and relaxed. His Haruchai rectitude did not permit him to violate the conditions of the test.

  Nodding, Stave rose smoothly to his feet and turned toward Branl and Clyme.

  Handir and the observing Masters concealed whatever they may have felt. Linden found that Liand had placed his hand on her shoulder. He gripped her tightly to contain his suspense.

  Clyme was the next to approach Stave. While they gazed at each other, motionless, the concentration—or perhaps the firelight—in the Humbled’s eyes conveyed the impression that he was probing Stave’s defenses.

  Linden knew that she would receive no forewarning; that even her health-sense could not anticipate the instant when either of the Haruchai would move. That in itself was a kind of presage. Nevertheless she was not ready. She flinched instinctively as Clyme attacked.

  Smooth as oil, and swift as light, the Humbled lashed a kick at Stave’s abdomen.

  Once again, Stave did not appear to react until he had already done so. Stepping aside, he swung an arm like a bar of iron across Clyme’s chest. Stave’s arm stopped Clyme’s momentum while Clyme’s kick carried him forward. Opposing forces swept the Humbled’s supporting leg out from under him.

  Like Galt, Clyme clutched at Stave as he fell. Clasping Stave’s arm, the Humbled attempted to yank Stave from his feet. But Stave responded by crouching quickly, using Clyme’s hold to drive the Humbled downward.

  Clyme landed hard. His shoulder blades could have been cracked. Certainly the breath should have been knocked from his lungs. But he was Haruchai: he did not react to the impact. Instead he let go of Stave’s arm, acknowledging defeat.

  Again Stave stood upright. While Clyme rose and walked away to join his kinsmen, Stave waited for the last of the Humbled.

  “My God,” Linden breathed to Liand and Mahrtiir. “They can’t hear his thoughts, but he still hears theirs. He knows exactly what they’re going to do.”

  Even if he had lost both eyes, he might have been able to defend himself against his own people. Over the millennia, the Haruchai had become dependent on their mental communion. Linked to each other, they could not adjust their tactics to accommodate his unfamiliar blend of isolation and awareness.

  But Branl appeared to understand the reasons for Stave’s success. The pace of his approach—or perhaps merely its tone—implied caution. And Handir studied the Humbled in a way that seemed to suggest inward counsel. All of the Masters may have been reminding Branl to fight as though Stave were not Haruchai.

  Instead of striking, Branl circled Stave slowly. He may have wanted Stave to make the first move; to commit himself.

  Yet even then Stave had the advantage. He had heard Handir’s advice—and Branl’s response. He understood Branl’s preparations. When
Stave jabbed suddenly at Branl’s head, the blow was a feint.

  The Humbled replied with a block which flowed seamlessly into a wheeling kick powerful enough to crumple Stave. But Stave had already stepped inside the kick and slapped down the block. While Branl snatched back his leg, Stave clipped him across the forehead with one elbow.

  To Linden’s slower perceptions, the touch of Stave’s elbow looked harmless: a glancing blow, nothing more. The collision of bone with bone sounded too soft to have any force. Yet the Humbled sprawled backward.

  In the fraction of a heartbeat remaining to him, Branl endeavored to execute a flip which would land him on his feet. But he did not have enough time. His knees and then his hands hit the floor.

  When he stood again, he gave Stave a small bow and withdrew to join the rest of the Masters.

  For a moment or two, a silence as gravid as an aftershock held the forehall. Linden imagined that she could hear the preconceptions of Stave’s kinsmen crumbling. Then Liand crowed. “Stave!” and pumped jubilation into the air with both fists. “Heaven and Earth, Stave!”

  Grinning fiercely, Mahrtiir growled, “Well done, Haruchai. Well done in all sooth. Here is a tale to gladden the hearts of the Ramen. At last blows have been struck which may humble the sleepless ones. And we have witnessed it, a Manethrall and his Cords. No longer may these Masters feign that their worth exceeds yours.”

  Linden felt suddenly weak; drained by relief. She wanted to sit down. Stave had already suffered too many hurts in her name. Now he was safe—at least for the moment. But she clung to her resolve and hid her frailty. Holding herself upright, she gave thanks with her eyes.

  Impassively Stave turned to Mahrtiir. “Manethrall, it was not done to demonstrate my worth. In their place, I would conduct myself as the Masters do. Rather it was done in the Chosen’s service—and to teach my people that they also may exceed themselves, if they elect to make the attempt.”

  Mahrtiir replied with a deep Ramen bow as if he were accepting a reprimand; but his whetted grin remained.

  “Worth is not at issue,” Handir said sternly. “One fall does not define merit or prowess. Yet we honor Stave’s wish to cause no harm, as we must. And we acknowledge the outcome of his trial.

  “Behold.”

  He nodded toward the gates; and as he did so, the massive stone began to open, turning soundlessly on its Giantish pivots or hinges. The savor of the air, chilled to crispness, and redolent with springtime, told Linden that the sun was rising. Its light was blocked by the bulk of the watchtower; but a grey illumination washed inward, softening the flames of the lamps and torches.

  “Linden Avery,” the Voice of the Masters announced, “you may summon the Ranyhyn.”

  His words seemed to dismiss some of the trepidation from the forehall.

  She resisted an impulse to head immediately for the walled courtyard. The taste of the air, and the prospect of leaving Revelstone, restored her eagerness. She was confident now. She had shared a horserite with Hyn and Hynyn: she knew that they would answer.

  But she had other concerns—

  First she faced Handir and bowed, although he had never bowed to her. “Even when I believe that you’re wrong,” she said quietly, “I don’t question your integrity. If I’ve ever said anything to make you think otherwise, I regret it. I hope that someday we’ll be allies again,” as they had been in the time of the Sunbane. “But for now, I just hope that you’ll try to withhold judgment.”

  She did not expect a reply, and Handir did not proffer one. She felt a tinge of sadness like an echo of his as she gestured for her friends to gather around her.

  “The Ranyhyn won’t fail us,” she told them. “You all know that. And Handir is going to let us leave.” She had sensed it in his hidden sorrow. “He doesn’t like the fact that Roger and the croyel tricked him. None of the Masters do. And we’re a constant reminder that they can make mistakes. Once we’re gone, they can debate their definition of service in peace.”

  If any peace remained to the Land—

  Stave nodded his confirmation.

  “But when we go,” Linden continued. “we have to remember that Anele is vulnerable when he stands on anything except stone.” Beyond the watchtower lay bare dirt. “Kastenessen can reach him. Lord Foul can reach him. Even Esmer can interfere with him. And there’s Covenant,” the real one. “who seems to suffer in the process as much as Anele does.

  “Whenever he isn’t riding, we have to be sure that he’s on stone. If we can’t find stone, maybe we can convince him to climb a tree. And if there aren’t any trees, a bedroll might be enough to protect him.

  “Or—” She held Liand’s gaze steadily. “If we don’t have any other options, you’ll have to let him hold your orcrest. I know that he hates being sane. But anything is better than allowing Kastenessen or Lord Foul to hurt him again.”

  Certainly the mad Elohim or the Despiser would be able to locate Linden if they were allowed to enter Anele. They would know where to send their forces.

  “As you say, Ringthane,” Mahrtiir promised. “The Ramen will not neglect the old man’s straits.”

  Liand ducked his head. When he looked at Linden again, she saw shadows and pain in his eyes. Carefully he said, “I cannot unremember the fire of violence and rage which has twice claimed Anele. His anguish as he holds the orcrest is fearsome. Yet in my sight it is a lesser torment than that which is inflicted upon him by possession. I will do what must be done to ward him.”

  Pahni gripped the Stonedownor’s hand as he spoke; and Stave nodded again.

  “Good.” At last, Linden unfolded her arms from the Staff. Taking it in her right hand, she stamped one heel on the stone. With her left, she reminded herself that Covenant’s ring still hung under her shirt; that one of her pockets held Jeremiah’s twisted toy. Then she turned toward the courtyard. “In that case, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

  Flanked by her companions, she strode through the inner gates to the open air between the watchtower and the main Keep. Behind her walked Handir and his phalanx of Masters as if they had become spectators at an event which no longer held their interest.

  In the center of the courtyard, she stopped. Here, she told herself. Now. But she had never summoned the Ranyhyn: Stave had done so for her. And she did not know how to whistle as he did, shrilly, and as poignant as keening.

  In a low voice, she asked Stave. “Would you mind?”

  He complied at once. Raising his fingers to his mouth, he gave a sharp whistle like a flung shaft of sound. It resounded from the smooth granite of Revelstone, echoing off the Keep’s buttresses, repeating itself darkly from the passage under the watchtower; and Linden’s heart lifted with it. He had surpassed himself for her sake. Both Liand and Mahrtiir had given more than she could have asked of them. Even poor Anele—The Ranyhyn would do no less.

  Then Stave whistled again, and the echoes multiplied until they beat like wings around the courtyard. When he whistled a third time, Linden seemed to hear the pinions of an imminent and ominous bird: a great raven, perhaps, just out of sight beyond the tower, and poised for augury.

  Slowly the echoes died away, emptying the sky. The heavy stone of the outer gates hampered her percipience. But she was not afraid. At that moment, she feared nothing except that her foes might prevent her from reaching Andelain.

  Instead of holding her breath or fretting, she counted her heartbeats until she heard the Voice of the Masters say her name. Then she met his flat gaze like a woman who had already departed, leaving her doubts and even her capacity for uncertainty with him.

  “It is as the Manethrall proposed,” Handir announced. “This test of truth also has been satisfied. The Ranyhyn have answered. They await your will beyond the gates.”

  For an instant, he appeared to hesitate. Then he admitted. “Their number is ten.”

  Ten. Oh, God, ten. Seven for Linden and her friends: three for the Masters. “Thus,” Handir continued, “the great horses
acknowledge both your intent and your capacity for desecration.”

  In effect, he had given his permission.

  She meant to offer him a parting bow. In her relief, she might have thanked him. The Masters were Haruchai and deserved as much. But she could not stop herself: she was already running toward the tunnel under the watchtower as if the sheer force of her yearning would compel the gates at the end of the lightless passage to set her free.

  6. Sons

  In sunrise, the Ramen and the Haruchai—the Humbled and their gathered kinsmen as well as Stave—gave homage to the Ranyhyn while Linden greeted Hyn gladly. Although she was impatient to be on her way, she did not chafe at the delay as Manethrall Mahrtiir named each of the great horses to the Masters: the seven who had borne Linden’s company as well as Mhornym, Bhanoryl, and Naybahn, who would be ridden by the Humbled. And she was not surprised that Handir had selected Branl, Galt, and Clyme to accompany her. Doubtless the Humbled had insisted on assuming that duty. They may have wanted another opportunity to prove themselves.

  Still she mounted Hyn quickly when the Ramen and the Haruchai had completed their ceremonies of respect. As soon as Stave and Mahrtiir indicated that her companions were ready, she turned her back on Revelstone and rode away as if her path toward Andelain held fewer perils than the defended Keep.

  Foes like Kastenessen and Roger, the Harrow and Lord Foul, merely wished to break her so that she might surrender or misuse her powers. The Masters believed that she could not be trusted.

  Mahrtiir sent his Cords scouting ahead. The Manethrall and Stave rode on either side of Linden. Liand accompanied Anele behind her. The Humbled ranged around the company. In that formation, the Ranyhyn cantered easily into the southeast, angling across the light of the new sun.

  From the vicinity of the fields that fed Lord’s Keep, the riders traveled down the bare plain which had been the battlefield for the Despiser’s final war against the Lords; his last attempt to achieve his ends through sheer force. But the swift gait of the Ranyhyn soon carried the company past the plain into a region of tumbled hills that stretched for leagues.