Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (20 page)

As soon as she took off her clothes

and stretched out under the blankets, she sank into a sleep as empty and unfathomable as the loneliness between the stars. If she dreamed or cried out, she did not know it.

One short night was not enough. She needed whole days of tranquility and balm. Nevertheless she was awake and dressed, as ready as she would ever be, when a knock at her door announced that her friends had returned for her. Some unconscious

awareness of time had roused her so that she could try to prepare herself.

She had opened her shutters briefly to look out at the weather. A drenching rain fell steadily, obscuring any hint of dawn’s approach; and the damp breeze brought memories of winter from the ice-clogged peaks to the west. The prospect of being soaked and chilled felt like foreboding as she closed the shutters and left the lingering embers in the hearth in order to answer the

summons of her friends and Revelstone’s need.

Stave stood outside with the Ramen, Liand, and Anele. Liand and Anele wore woolen cloaks, heavy and hooded, although the Ramen and the former Master apparently disdained such protections. But over one arm, Stave carried a cloak for Linden.

Her companions offered her a subdued greeting which she hardly returned:

she had already begun to sink into herself, focusing her concentration on the friable structure of her resolve-and on her percipience itself, striving to sharpen her health-sense so that she might be able to penetrate the mystic obfuscations of the Demondim. Distractedly she accepted the cloak from Stave, shrugged it over her shoulders. Clinging to the Staff, she nodded to indicate that she was as ready as she would ever be.

She can do this. Tell her I said that.

Flanked by Stave and Mahrtiir, with the Cords, Liand, and Anele behind her, she set out to confront the innominate powers of the Vile-spawn.

Although she had not said so, she wanted to reach the highest possible vantage above the horde. There distance and rain might conceal her from the monsters until she was prepared to unfurl the Staff’s fire. But

Stave appeared to grasp her unspoken desires. Without a word, he led her where she needed to go.

Tense and determined, her small company passed along the intricate passages of the Keep to the wide tunnel which led like a road toward the upland. And as they rounded the last switchback, they began to splash through streams of rainwater. Below them, the streams were diverted into culverts and drains; and Linden

wondered obliquely how the Haruchai had contrived to block those waterways when the Sandgorgon Nom had used Glimmermere’s outflow to extinguish the lingering inferno of the Banefire, three and a half thousand years ago. Since then, however, the drains and channels had obviously been reŹopened so that accumulating torrents would not flood into the Keep.

As she ascended, Linden seemed to struggle against a current of memories:

Covenant’s extravagant bravery when he had quenched the theurgy of the Banefire; her own weakness and Nom’s blunt strength. But then she slogged out of the tunnel into the open rain, and the downpour forced her attention back to the present. It impelled her to pull up her hood and huddle into her cloak; required her to forget who she had been and remember who she was.

There’s no one else who can even

make the attempt.

From the shelter of the tunnel, she and her companions turned north and east across the hills toward the promontory of Revelstone. Almost at once, the rain soaked into her cloak. Darkness covered the world, blotting out every horizon: she could only guess where she placed her feet. Nevertheless she sensed that the worst of the storm had passed, that the rainfall was beginning to dwindle as the laden clouds drifted

eastward.

Stave and the Manethrall steered her in a northerly curve toward the jut of the plateau, seeking, perhaps, to avoid an unseen hill or some other obstacle. Slowly water seeped through her cloak into her clothes: it dripped from her legs into her boots. By degrees, the chill of night and spring and damp leached the warmth from her skin. More and more, she yearned to draw on the invigorating fire of the Staff. She

wanted to banish cold and fear and her own mortality so that she might feel equal to what lay ahead of her.

But if she did so, she would forewarn the Demondim. Knowing that she meant to release Law and Earthpower, Covenant might muster enough of his inexplicable puissance to protect himself and Jeremiah. But the Vile-spawn would recognize their danger. And they would not need prescience to guess her purpose. They would ramify

their defenses, creating cul-de-sacs and chimeras of lore to baffle her health-sense so that she could not identify their caesure. Or perhaps they would preempt her by unleashing the full evil of the II!earth Stone—

She knew that bane too well to believe that she could stand against it: not without wild magic. And she trembled to think what might happen to Covenant and her son-or indeed to the hidden Fall of the Demondim-if

she were compelled to unveil the force of Covenant’s ring. It’s hard now. And it’s going to get harder. Covenant and Jeremiah might not simply vanish: they might cease to exist in any meaningful form. And the caesure of the Demondim might grow vast enough to devour the whole of Lord’s Keep.

Her own fears as much as the cold and rain filled her with shivering, imminent fever, as she restrained her wish for the Staff’s warmth and consolation.

Instead she let her companions lead her to her destination as if she were more blind than Anele, and had far less fortitude.

Immersed in private dreads, she did not sense the presence of the Masters until she neared the rim of Revelstone high above the courtyard and watchtower that guarded the Keep’s gates.

Two of them awaited her. By now, she

knew them well enough to recognize Handir and Galt, although she could scarcely discern their shapes in the darkness; certainly could not make out their features. No doubt the other Humbled, Branl and Clyme, had remained with Covenant and Jeremiah.

Galt and the Voice of the Masters stood between her and the cliff-edge of her intent.

She was not surprised to find them in

her way. Doubtless they had read her intentions in Stave’s mind. And she was confident that they had informed the ur-Lord-If she had not sunk so far into herself, she might have expected to encounter the Masters earlier.

Perhaps she should have been grateful that only two of Stave’s kinsmen had come to witness her actions; or to oppose them.

“Chosen,” Handir said when Linden

and her friends were near enough to hear him easily through the rain, “the Unbeliever requests that you refrain from your intent. He requests it. He does not command it. In this, he was precise. He acknowledges the merit of your purpose. But he conceives that the peril is too great.

“Having been forewarned, he asserts that he will be able to refuse banishment. That is not his concern. Rather he fears what will transpire

should you fail. Provoked, the

Demondim will draw upon the full might of the II!earth Stone. From such an assault, only ruin can ensue. The ur-Lord’s design for the salvation of the Land is fragile, easily impeded. If he is assailed by the Demondim, he will be unable to perform what he must.

For that reason and no other, he asks that you turn aside from your intent and await the revelation of his purposes at Furl Falls.”

“And if the Chosen does not fail?” countered Stave before Mahrtiir could retort. “Are the Masters not thereby greatly aided in their service to both Lord’s Keep and the Land?”

The Voice of the Masters did not reply. Instead Galt stated, “Her failure is certain. Our discernment exceeds hers, yet we cannot determine how the Fall of the Demondim is concealed. And if she draws upon Earthpower to enhance her sight, she will be

revealed, and the horde will strike against her. Therefore she cannot achieve her aim.

“It is the ur-Lord, the Unbeliever, the rightful wielder of white gold who requests her compliance. How may any refusal be justified?”

Linden stepped closer. She was beyond persuasion: fear and determination and even bafflement had made her as unwilling to compromise

as the Masters themselves. Covenant’s indirect appeal and Galt’s reasoning were like the rain: they could fall on her, soak into her clothes, fill her mortal heart with shivering; but they could not deflect her.

Handir had not bowed to her. She gave him no greeting of her own. Ignoring Galt, she asked abruptly. “Did he tell you what this design of his is?”

“No,” Handir answered as though her

question had no relevance. “We cannot aid him, and so he did not speak of it. He asked only that we keep the ancient promise of the Haruchai to preserve Revelstone.”

“Then,” she said softly, as if she wished only Handir and the rain to hear her, “it seems to me that you still don’t understand what Brinn did against the Guardian of the One Tree.” If the Master did not consider the specific nature of Covenant’s purpose

germane, he could not say the same of the example upon which his people had founded their Mastery. “I tried to explain it yesterday, but I probably wasn’t clear.

“Brinn didn’t beat ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol by defeating him. He beat him by surrendering. He couldn’t stop the Guardian from throwing him off a cliff, so he took Kenaustin Ardenol with him when he fell.”

This you have-” Handir began; but Linden did not let him interrupt her.

“Doesn’t that strike you as a rather un-Haruchai thing to do? In your whole history, have your people ever considered trying to solve a problem by surrendering to it’?”

That may have been why Covenant had asked the Haruchai not to accompany him while he and Linden went to confront Lord Foul. The

ancestors of the Masters might have sacrificed their lives to prevent him from giving his ring to the Despiser. Indeed, Covenant may have decided on his own course because he had witnessed Brinn’s victorious defeat.

“So where do you suppose Brinn got the idea? How did he even think of it?” She suspected that Handir knew the answer-that his ancestors had heard it from Cail, and that it was the underlying reason for their repudiation

of Brinn’s companion-but she did not pause for his reply. “I’ll tell you. He got it because he already thought of himself as a failure. He and Cail were seduced by the merewives. They surrendered. They proved that they were unworthy before Brinn fought the Guardian of the One Tree.”

He had said, Our folly must end now-But no Haruchai except Cail had harkened to him.

Still softly, almost whispering, Linden finished. “Brinn became your ak-Haru, your greatest hero, because he was a failure. He believed the worst about himself, and he understood surrender.”

If the Masters had heeded Brinn’s example, they would have chosen their Humbled, not by victory, but by defeat.

“It may be so,” Handir admitted after a moment’s silence. “We have not yet determined our stance toward you. But

we have become the Masters of the Land, and the import of the Unbeliever’s presence among us is plain. Lords whom the Bloodguard honored believed that Thomas Covenant was Berek Earthfriend come again. They sacrificed much in his name, trusting that he would save rather than damn the Land. And he has twice justified their faith.

“We know nothing of the rebirth of ancient legends. But we are Haruchai

and will not turn aside from ourselves. Therefore we also will place our faith in the Halfhand. Where he is concerned, we discount the warning of the Elohim, for they are arrogant and heartless, and their purposes are often cruel.”

“All right.” Linden looked away from the sound of Handir’s voice. “You didn’t hear Cail, you didn’t hear Stave, and you won’t hear me.” You’ll have to make them listen to you, but that was not her task. “You’ve made that

obvious enough.” When she directed her attention past him and the grass-cloaked rim of Revelstone, she could feel the distant moiling of the Demondim. Through the rain, she tasted their opalescence and vitriol, their ravenous hunger for harm, as well as their wary defenses and apparent confusion. “But were still your guests, and Covenant didn’t command you to stop me. So unless you have something else to say, I want to get started before those monsters notice

me.”

Even if the Demondim could not feel her presence, they might detect the proximity of the Staff of Law.

Handir appeared to hesitate. Then Linden felt rather than saw him move until he no longer stood between her and the horde.

Do something they don’t expect.

At once, she dropped to her hands and knees as if she were sinking back into herself; into her concentration and dismay. She no longer regarded Handir and Galt, or her friends, or the clammy grasp of the rain on her back. If anyone spoke to her, she did not hear. By touch, she crawled through the drenched grass toward the extreme edge of Revelstone’s promontory. She did not know what the limits of the Vile-spawn’s perceptions might be; but she hoped to expose as little of herself

as possible.

Then she found it: the outermost rim of the cliff, where the grass and soil of the plateau fell away from their foundation of stone. With little more than her head extended beyond the edge, she cast her health-sense downward.

At first, the rain seemed to plunge past her into a featureless abyss, black and primitive as terror. But as she focused her percipience, she saw with every

sense except vision the shaped, deliberate surface of Revelstone’s prow directly below her; the walled and open courtyard; the massed bulk of the watchtower. For a moment, she distracted herself by noticing the presence of Masters within the tower. Then she looked farther.

The crown of the watchtower partially blocked her view of the Demondim. However, only a small portion of the horde was obscured: in spite of the rain

and the darkness, she could discern most of the forces gathered beyond the Keep’s outer gates. When she had attuned herself to the roil and surge of the horde’s hatred, its dimensions became clear.

Veiled by rainfall, fiery opalescence seethed in chaotic waves and spatters from edge to edge of the Demondim formation. And through the stirred turmoil of the monsters’ might, amid the randomness of their black vitriol,