Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant 02 - Fatal Revenant

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Linden refused listen. She could not heed the Elohim: not now. Instead she concentrated on more immediate details. The dampness of her jeans. The water in her boots. The strict and comforting sensation of the Staff in her hand. Aflame, the Wraiths wove her way among the copses and greenswards. On her behalf, they held back every darkness. Their fires were too little to dim the thronging stars; but still the Wraiths gave a processional dignity to the night.

  And so this way the world ends—

  Everyone except Linden’s friends expected calamities. And even they were not impervious to doubt. The Giants had expressed their concern. Earlier Stave had asked her to consider turning aside. Days ago, Liand had admitted, It is possible that your loves will bind your heart to destruction— The Theomach himself had warned her. If you err in this, your losses will be greater than you are able to conceive.

  Now, however, Linden felt no reaction from her companions. Apart from the Harrow, they walked or rode in stillness. As far as she could tell, they were ensorcelled by the Wraiths and heard nothing. Infelice was certainly capable of making her voice, and Linden’s, inaudible to others. By his own means, the Theomach had performed a similar feat in Berek’s camp.

  Speaking of Linden’s capacity for darkness, Liand had also said, I am not afraid.

  When she had steadied herself, she realized that Infelice’s pronouncements made her stronger. Opposition confirmed her choices. The fact that she inspired fear in beings like Roger and Kastenessen, Esmer and Infelice, demonstrated that she was on the right path.

  “You Elohim amaze me,” she remarked almost casually. “You always have. After all of this time, you still don’t realize that you’re wrong.

  “I’m not like Covenant. I never was. If he hadn’t beaten Lord Foul, I would have broken.” She lacked his capacity for miracles. “Lord Foul would have won, and none of us would be here to discuss whether Covenant and I did the right thing.”

  “No, Wildwielder,” insisted Infelice with a flush of heat and pleading. “We are not in error. Your thoughts are inadequate to comprehend ours. It was not for the Despiser’s defeat that we sought to impose the burden of wild magic upon you. Had you indeed ‘broken,’ as you believe, both the Land and the Earth would have suffered great harm. That is sooth. But Time would have endured. Deprived of its rightful wielder, white gold is not puissant to destroy the Arch.

  “Also there would now exist no Staff of Law. Its benisons are many. Nonetheless it constrains the Timewarden. By wild magic, he came into being—and by your deeds, he was made weak.”

  If you hadn’t taken my ring and made that Staff, I would have been able to fix everything—

  “And we are the Elohim,” Infelice continued, “equal to all things. Across the centuries, we would have healed much. Perhaps the Despiser’s blight upon the Land would have remained, but the Earth we would have preserved and restored.”

  With a strange calm exasperation as unexpected and luminous as her passage through Andelain, Linden asked. “Then what was it all for? If you didn’t care about the outcome—or the Land—why did you try so hard to force me to take Covenant’s place?”

  To himself, the Harrow chuckled scornfully.

  Guided by Wraiths like candle flames, Linden rode under a broad Gilden and crossed the lip of a shallow vale—and saw her goal. It had always been there. Esmer had told her so: Stave and the Masters knew its location. Nevertheless it seemed to come into existence suddenly, as if it had manifested itself in response to her need. Between instants, the night was cast back, and silver fire shone from the bottom of the vale.

  Dancing, the Wraiths moved ahead of her down the gentle slope and spread out to encircle the krill of High Lord Loric, son of Damelon, father of Kevin. There they bobbed and grew brighter, apparently bowing—and feeding, drawing sustenance from the blade’s incandescence.

  Here was the source of their power to preserve Andelain. The krill was powerful in itself, able to cut stone without being dulled, and to sever the lives of eldritch creatures like the Viles and the Demondim. But its greatest strength—the chief accomplishment of Loric’s lore—was as a channel for other magicks. Made active by the mere presence, quiescent and extravagant, of white gold, the blade protected the Hills. Yet Linden had seen it accomplish more. With the krill, Sunder had slain Caer-Caveral, although Sunder was no more than a grieved Stonedownor, and Caer-Caveral was the last Forestal, powerful enough to preserve Andelain against the Sunbane. And in the release of Caer-Caveral’s music, the krill had enabled Sunder’s yearning to tear apart the fabric of Law so that Hollian lived again.

  Loric’s weapon was a two-edged dagger almost as long as a short sword. At the intersection of its blade, its straight guards, and its ribbed hilt, it had been forged around a clear gem, mystic and immaculate: the focal point of its power. There the gem blazed with condensed argent like contained wild magic, at once potent and controlled; ready for any use.

  It remained exactly as Linden remembered it: a cynosure of vindication and loss deeply embedded in the black, blasted stump of a ruined tree which had once been Caer-Caveral and Hile Troy.

  Goaded by memories and exigency, a purpose as desperate as the last Forestal’s, she urged Hyn into a swift canter. Graceful as water, Hyn carried Linden through the acknowledgment of the Wraiths toward the bottom of the vale; toward dead wood and shining and culmination.

  Behind her, Infelice called urgently, “It was for this! To avert this present moment.” Dread and supplication squirmed through her voice. “Broken or triumphant in the past, you would not have returned to the Land. You would not now hold white gold and the Staff of Law. Nor would you approach Loric’s krill in Andelain accompanied by Wraiths. You would not be driven by mistaken love to bring about the end of all things!”

  Linden wanted to laugh like the Harrow. As she swept closer to her destination, she answered in derision. “Does it bother you at all that you’re completely insane?”

  Then Hyn led Linden’s companions into the expanding circle of the Wraiths. There Linden dismounted. With the opulent grass of the Hills beneath her sodden boots and stained pants, she hugged the Staff of Law to her chest. It was here: Loric’s krill was here. —that which will enable her to bear her strengths— And Covenant’s ring hung under her shirt. Jeremiah’s racecar rested in her pocket. She had gained everything that she required—except the Dead.

  The krill had been driven deeply into the wood: she was not sure that she could remove it. And she remembered its heat. She was not Covenant, the rightful white gold wielder, numb with leprosy: if she touched the dagger with her bare skin, it might burn her. Instead she stood before it as though it were the altar of Caer-Caveral’s sacrifice.

  Liand and the rest of her friends arrived after her. Only Stave and the Humbled dropped to the ground: the other riders remained aback their Ranyhyn as if they were caught in dreams, bespelled by the Wraiths. Even the Giants appeared to wander entranced, lost in mysteries. Coldspray and perhaps Grueburn seemed to struggle against their amazement, but their comrades gazed upon the circling of the Wraiths and did not awaken.

  Like Liand, Anele, and the Ramen, the Harrow remained mounted at a distance from Linden and the krill. The bottomless holes of his eyes considered the fiery gem hungrily.

  Floating, Infelice drifted to the ground near Linden. The intensity of the krill dimmed her raiment, robbed her of luster. She sounded almost human—almost petulant—as she said, “I have heard you, Wildwielder. Have you heard me? We stand now at the last crisis of the Earth. If you do not turn aside, you will be broken indeed. Your remorse will surpass your strength to bear it.”

  Linden did not answer. Instead she spoke softly to the waiting night.

  “I’m here. It’s time. You know why I’ve come. You know what I have to do.” When Covenant had entered Andelain without her, his Dead had given him gifts to aid his efforts to redeem the Land. Linden, find me. I can’t help you unless you find me. “The Harrow says that this is Banas Nimoram, an
d you called me here. I can’t save anything”—not Jeremiah, not the Land, not even herself—“without you.”

  Around her and the Wraiths, the darkness seemed to hold its breath. The Harrow murmured quiet invocations which meant nothing to her. Infelice fretted as if she were inconsolable. The Swordmainnir shifted restlessly in their trance, and Anele jerked his head from side to side, watchful and frightened, like a man being hunted. The stars grew still in their stately allemande.

  Linden could not know that she would be heeded. Yet she felt no doubt. In dreams and through Anele, Covenant had reached out to her across the boundaries of life and death. She no longer considered it possible that she might be mistaken.

  Then the night gave a low sigh; and beyond the Wraiths two figures came forward from the rim of the vale. They were portrayed in silver as though they were made of moonlight: they shone with phosphorescence like a gentler manifestation of the krill’s argent blaze. But they were at once more definite than moonshine and less acute than the blade’s echo of wild magic. Although they walked with formal steps, they appeared to drift like wisps over the grass, as evanescent as dreaming, and as allusive.

  Linden knew them. They were Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand, Anele’s parents.

  When they had passed between the reverent flames, they stopped partway down the slope. They seemed strangely commanding and penitent, and their moonstone eyes gleamed with austere compassion. Linden’s heart surged at the sight of them; but they did not glance in her direction or speak. Instead they gazed at Anele as if they were full of suppressed weeping.

  He must have been aware of them. With his hands, he covered his face. But then he seemed to find that his fingers and palms were too thin, too frail, to protect him. Flinging his arms around his head, he ducked low over Hrama’s neck like a child who hoped to hide from chastisement.

  Now Linden saw tears in Hollian’s eyes and sorrow in Sunder’s. Yet they beckoned to their son, summoning him toward them with the certainty of monarchs. In life, their courage and love and Earthpower had earned them the stature of Lords.

  Anele did not react to their mute call. But Hrama responded. As if both he and his rider belonged in such company, the Ranyhyn carried Anele toward his Dead.

  Sunder and then Hollian bowed to Hrama, silent and grave. Gesturing, they invited the Ranyhyn to walk between them. Solemn as a cortege, they turned to escort Hrama and Anele away from Loric’s krill; out of the vale. Linden felt her heart try to break—try and fail—while Sunder and Hollian departed with their son. But they said nothing; and so she could not. A cry of abandonment sounded within her for a moment. Then it relapsed to stone.

  As Sunder, Hollian, and their son passed away among the flames, Linden lost sight of them. In their place, another ghost strode down the slope.

  She knew him as well, grieved for him as much.

  He was Grimmand Honninscrave, the Master of Starfare’s Gem. In measureless agony, he had contained samadhi Sheol so that the Sandgorgon Nom could kill him in order to rend the Raver. Thirty-five centuries later, anguish still gripped his face. As he moved, he seemed to shed droplets of moonlight like blood.

  He also stopped midway between the Wraiths and the dead stump of Caer-Caveral’s sacrifice. He also did not speak. And he did not spare a glance for Linden, in spite of their friendship. His ancient pain conveyed the impression that he feared her as he summoned the Swordmainnir.

  They obeyed without hesitation, sheathing their weapons as they strode toward the Dead Giant. Around Honninscrave’s moonstruck figure, they stood for a moment in silence and awe. Then they accompanied him away from Linden, leaving her to face her choices without their encouragement, their strength, their laughter. Together they followed Honninscrave past the Wraiths until he and they had faded into the night.

  Of Linden’s friends, only Stave, Liand, and the Ramen remained.

  “Do you behold this, Wildwielder?” Infelice hissed with the urgency of a serpent. “Do you see? These are your Dead. Their love for you is not forgotten. Yet they shun you. They seek to spare their descendants the peril of your intent. If you will not heed me, heed them.”

  The Harrow countered Infelice’s appeal with a jeer, although he kept his distance. “She is Infelice,” he told Linden scornfully, “suzerain among the Elohim, and blind with self-worship. Yet there is insight in her disregard. You also have been made blind, lady.” His disdain became veiled supplication. “There is a Kevin’s Dirt of the soul as there is of the flesh. The Earth would have been better served if you had not cast away the Mahdoubt’s name and use and life.”

  Linden might have wavered then. But she had not come here for Honninscrave, or for Sunder and Hollian. Covenant’s ring hung, untouched, under her shirt, and Jeremiah’s racecar was in her pocket: she was still waiting. If all of her friends were taken from her, she would stand where she was until Covenant appeared.

  Through her teeth, she repeated. “I’m here. It’s time.”

  I need you. I need you now.

  But if any ghost among the Hills heard her, it was not Thomas Covenant. Instead ten stern spirits walked like wafting down into the vale, and she saw that they were Haruchai whom she had known: Cail, Ceer, and Hergrom, as well as others who had fought against the Clave in Revelstone. When she recognized Esmer’s father, she had to bite her lip to stifle a groan. In spite of his long devotion, he had been beaten bloody by his kinsmen because he had failed to resist the seduction of the merewives. Forlorn, he had later left Lord’s Keep to seek the Dancers of the Sea once again. He could not forget the passion and cruelty of their siren lure. The denunciation of his people had left him no other path.

  Now he and his Dead company entered the vale severely, as if they had come to repay judgment with judgment.

  They, too, halted on the slope of the vale. And they, too, did not speak. With moonlight in their eyes and authority in their gestures, they beckoned Stave and the Humbled toward them. If they addressed the living Haruchai mind to mind, Linden felt nothing.

  But neither Stave nor the Masters obeyed.

  The Dead insisted, upright and uncompromising. The argence of the krill reflected in Stave’s eye, and in the eyes of the Humbled, echoing the glow of the Dead. Still none of the Haruchai left their places with Linden.

  “Stave?” she breathed. “What do they want? What are they saying?”

  Stave shook his head. He did not glance away from Cail, Ceer, and Hergrom. “This night holds no enmity,” he said as if to himself. “The Dead neither spurn nor oppose you. Rather they seek to make way. Other spirits inhabit Andelain, spectres which may not be denied. While Loric’s krill burns, their might requires compliance. They will come to affirm the necessity of freedom.

  “The Insequent and the Elohim honor no power but their own. They remain because they fear for themselves. Yet they dare not contend. If they offer strife, they will be expelled in spite of their theurgies. And they cannot sway you. You hold no love for them. Therefore you cannot be misled.”

  Be cautious of love. There is a glamour upon it which binds the heart to destruction.

  Stave’s quiet voice seemed to rouse Liand and the Ramen from their imposed reverie. They stirred as if they were awakening; turned their heads and looked around them. Linden felt their attention sharpen. Mahrtiir lifted his garrote in his hands.

  After a time, the Dead Haruchai appeared to accept that they had been refused. Cail’s expression was radiant sorrow; but Ceer and the others glowered in disapproval. Their movements were stiff with reproach as they withdrew.

  “Stave?” Linden asked again. She believed that she understood Cail’s sadness. But Hergrom, Ceer, and the others were the ancestors of the Masters. If they were alive, surely they would have stood beside the Humbled?

  Stave frowned. “Be still, Chosen,” he said in a constrained hush. “The Dead have no words for your ears. They are forbidden to address you. In this place, your deeds must be your own, unpersuaded for good or ill by the counsel and
knowledge of those who have perished. So it has been commanded, and the Dead obey.”

  Other spirits inhabit Andelain—

  Who but Covenant had the stature to command the Dead?

  The answer came toward the vale from four directions. As the Dead Haruchai faded past the dancing adulation of the Wraiths, vast doors seemed to open, rents in the fabric of the night, and four towering shades strode forth.

  They were tall, prodigiously tall, not because they were Giants, but because their spirits were great. Their brightness emulated the blaze of the krill.

  One of them walked out of the west. With a shock, Linden saw that he was Berek Halfhand. But he was not the Berek whom she had met, embattled and weary, baffled by nameless powers. Rather he was High Lord Berek Heartthew, limned in victory and lore. Under the Theomach’s tutelage, he had transcended himself. His eyes were stars, and he gazed upon Linden with somber gladness, simultaneously concerned and gratified.

  From the north came another mighty spectre whom she knew, although she had only met him briefly as a young man. He was Damelon son of Berek, now High Lord Damelon Giantfriend. In his time, he had both discovered and guarded the Blood of the Earth. As he aged, he had put on girth: Dead, he implied the bulk of mountains against the background of Andelain’s darkness and the black heavens. To Linden’s shaken stare, he replied with a beatific smile.

  The figure approaching from the south was a man whom she had not encountered; but he could only be Damelon’s son, High Lord Loric Vilesilencer. He was gaunt with striving and mastered anguish, and the dark pits of his eyes held the intimate ache of despair. Yet he gazed upon the krill, his handiwork, with an air of profound vindication. When he looked at Linden, he nodded in approval, as if he were certain of her.

  But Kevin Landwaster entered the vale from the east. She knew him too well. He had confronted her once before in Andelain, ordering her to halt the Unbeliever’s mad intent; prevent Covenant from surrendering his ring. We are kindred in our way—the victims and enactors of Despite. In torment and outrage, High Lord Kevin’s ghost had implored or commanded her to kill Covenant if she could find no other way to stop him.