Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (64 page)

“Chosen,” he relied flatly. “they are

chary of me.”

Surprised, she demanded, “You mean that they don’t think they’ve punished you enough?”

Stave shook his head. “As you know, my people will no longer address their thoughts to me, or respond to mine. When I had experienced their rejection for a time, I found that I wished to foil it. Though I comprehend their denunciation, I became loath to

countenance it. Therefore I have learned to mute my inward voice. I hear the silent speech of the Masters, but they do not hear mine.”

While Linden stared at him, he continued, “Formerly the Humbled might remain in the passage with the door sealed, and yet would know all that I heard and said and thought. But now my mind is hidden from them. If they do not stand in your presence, they will learn nothing of your tale or

your purposes, for they judge rightly that I will not reveal you to them.”

“Stave-” His explanation filled her with such wonder that she could hardly find words. “Anyone who makes the mistake of underestimating you deserves what happens.” Then she fought down her awe and ire. The Land has had some great heroes. I’ve known a few myself,” too many to bear. “But you-all of you”-she looked around at Liand, Anele, and the

Ramen-“could hold your heads up in any company.”

Then she faced Stave again. Articulating each word precisely, she said, But I can’t talk in front of these halfhands.” What had happened to her was too personal. “I need them to wait outside. I know this is a lot to ask. And I’ll understand if you don’t want to do it. But I hope that you’ll agree to answer their questions after we’re done here. Assure them that you’ll tell them

whatever they need to know.”

The Haruchai raised an eyebrow; but he did not object. Instead he glanced at Clyme and Galt. Without inflection, he said, “The Chosen has spoken. I will comply. You may depart.”

As he spoke, Linden folded her arms across her chest to conceal her fists. Glaring, she dared the Humbled to believe that Stave would not abide by his word.

They considered her for a moment. Then Galt countered. And if his judgment differs from ours, concealing that which we would deem necessary? What then?”

Linden did not hesitate. “You’re forgetting something.” She had beaten back Roger Covenant and the croyel and Lord Foul’s manipulations. She had met Berek Halfhand and Damelon Giantfriend and the Theomach, the greatest of all Insequent. Caerroil

Wildwood had given runes to her Staff. The Mandoubt had crossed ten millennia to rescue her. She felt no impulse to doubt herself, or falter. The Land needs you. Even I need you. I’m still hoping that something will persuade you to help me. And Stave knows how you think. He won’t withhold anything that matters to you.”

Still neither of the Humbled moved. You speak of us as ‘halfhands,”’ observed Clyme. That name we

accept, for we have claimed it in long combat, and our purpose among the Masters is honorable. But is it your belief that we are the halfhand’ of whom the Elohim sought to forewarn the people of the Land?”

She sighed, gripping herself tightly. “No. I know better.”

Galt, Branl, and Clyme represented that aspect of the Masters which might cause them to stand stubbornly aside

when they were most needed. But she had seen the truth of Roger and the croyel. And Kastenessen himself might now be considered a halfhand. She was sure that the Elohim did not fear the Humbled.

For a moment longer, Clyme and Galt appeared to consult the air of the chamber, or perhaps the larger atmosphere of Revelstone. Then they left the room without further argument, closing the door behind them.

At last, Linden bowed to Stave. “Thank you.” When the Humbled were gone, some of her tension eased. She was finally able to look at her friends and smile.

Because Liand was the least reserved among them, and his apprehensions darkened his eyes, she faced him, although she spoke to the Ramen and Stave as well. “Please don’t misunderstand,” she urged with as much warmth as she could muster. “I

probably don’t look happy to be back. But I am. It’s just that I’ve been through things that I don’t even know how to describe. For a while there, I didn’t think that I would ever see any of you again.” Her voice held steady when it should have quivered. “If the Mandoubt hadn’t saved me, I would be as good as dead.”

The young Stonedownor’s face brimmed with questions. Linden held up her hand to forestall them.

“But now I know what I have to do. That’s what you see in me,” instead of gladness. “I was betrayed, and I’ve gone so far beyond anger that I might not come back. I want to hear what’s happened to all of you. I need to know how long I’ve been gone, and what the Demondim are doing. Then I have to find a way to leave Revelstone.” Trying to be clear, she finished, “I’ve been too passive. I’m tired of it. I want to start doing things that our enemies don’t expect.”

She was not surprised by Stave’s blunt nod, or by the sudden ferocity of Mahrtiir’s grin. And she took for granted that the Cords would follow their Manethrall in spite of their reasons for alarm, the ominous prophecies which they had heard from Anele. But Linden had expected doubt and worry from Liand: she was not prepared for the immediate excitement that brightened his gentle eyes. And Anele’s reaction actively startled her.

Swallowing a lump of mutton, he jumped to his feet. In a loud voice, he announced, “Anele no longer fears the creatures, the lost ones.” His head jerked from side to side as if he were searching for something. “He fears to remember. Oh, that he fears.” With one hand, he beckoned sharply to Liand, although he seemed unaware of the gesture. “And the Masters must be fled. So he proclaims to all who will heed him.

“But the others-” Abruptly his voice sank to a whisper. “They speak in Anele’s dreams. Their voices he fears more than horror and recrimination.”

His madness was visible in every line of his emaciated form. To some extent, however, it was vitiated by the fact that he stood on wrought stone. Here as on Kevin’s Watch, or in his gaol in Mithil Stonedown, he referred to himself as if he were someone else; but shaped or worn rock occasionally enabled him to

respond with oblique poignancy to what was said and done around him.

Still he beckoned for Liand. The others-?

“Linden-” said Liand awkwardly. The insistence of Anele’s gestures appeared to disturb him. He must have understood them. “I lack words to convey-“

“Then,” Mahrtiir instructed, “permit the Ringthane to witness his plight, as he desires. When she has beheld it, words will follow.”

The young man cast a look like an appeal at Linden; but he obeyed the Manethrall. Sighing unhappily, he reached to a sash at his waist, a pale blue strip of cloth which Linden had not seen before, and from which hung a leather pouch the size of his cupped hand. Untying the pouch, he slipped an

object into his hand, took a deep breath to steady himself, then pressed the object into Anele’s grasp.

It was a smooth piece of stone, vaguely translucent-and distinctly familiar. Linden’s health-sense received an impression of compacted possibilities.

Anele’s fingers clenched immediately around the stone. At once, he flung back his head and wailed as though his heart were being torn from him.

Instinctively Linden moved toward the old man. But Liand reached out to stop her; and Mahrtiir barked. “Withhold, Ringthane! Anele wishes this.”

An instant later, a rush of power from Anele’s closed fist washed away every hint of his lunacy.

Linden jerked to a halt and stared. That was Earthpower, but it was not Anele’s inborn strength. Rather his latent force catalyzed or evoked a different form of

magic; a particular eldritch energy which she had known long ago.

Then the flood of puissance passed, and Anele fell silent. Slowly he lowered his head. When he looked at Linden, his blind gaze focused on her as if he could see.

“Linden Avery,” he said hoarsely. “Chosen and Sun-Sage. White gold wielder. You are known to me.”

“Anele,” she breathed. “You’re sane.”

None of her companions showed any surprise, although their distress was plain. They had recognized the old man’s gestures; must have seen this transformation before-

“I am,” he acknowledged, and do not wish it. It torments me, for it is clarity without succor. I cannot heal the harm that I have wrought. But I must speak and be understood. They ask it of me.”

-They?” urged Linden. Anele had endured Lord Foul’s brutal presence, and Kastenessen’s. He had felt Esmer’s coercion. And Thomas Covenant had spoken through him as well: a more benign possession, but a violation nonetheless. If even sleep had become fear and anguish, how could he retain any vestige of himself?

They do not possess me,” he replied with fragile dignity, as though he understood her alarm. “Rather they

speak in my dreams, imploring this of me. They are Sunder my father and Hollian my mother, whom my weakness has betrayed. And behind them stands Thomas Covenant, who craves only that I assure you of his love. But the intent of Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand is more urgent.”

Sunder? Linden thought dumbly. Hollian? She gaped at the son of her long-dead friends as he continued, “They sojourn among the Dead in

Andelain, and they beg of you that you do not seek them out. They know not how the peril of Kastenessen and the skurj and white gold may be answered. They cannot guide or counsel you. They are certain only that doom awaits you in the company of the Dead.”

His love. “Anele-” Linden’s voice was a croak of chagrin. “Can you talk to them?’ They beg of you-“In your dreams? Can you tell them that I know what I’m doing?”

All of her hopes were founded in Andelain. If she were forbidden to approach the Dead, she was truly lost; and Jeremiah would suffer until the Arch of Time crumbled.

The old man shook his head. “Sleeping, I am mute.” His moonstone eyes regarded her in supplication. “In my remorse, I would cry out to them, but they cannot hear. No power of dream or comprehension will shrive me until I have discovered and fulfilled my

geas.”

Then he turned away. “Liand,” he panted, faltering, “I beseech you. Relieve me of this burden. I cannot bear the knowledge of myself.”

Doom awaits you in the company of the Dead.

When he extended his hand and opened his fingers, he revealed a piece of orcrest, Sunstone. To Linden’s

senses, it appeared identical to the smooth, unevenly shaped rock with which Sunder had warded the folk of Mithil Stonedown from the Sunbane. Its potency made it seem transparent, but it was not. Instead it resembled a void in the substance of Anele’s palm; an opening into some other dimension of reality or Earthpower.

Its touch had restored his mind.

“No.” As Liand reached for the stone,

Linden grabbed Anele; forced him to face her again. She wanted to demand, Why? You’re sane now. Tell me why. She had heard too many prophesies of disaster. Even Liand had warned her, You have it within you to perform horrors. She needed to know what Sunder and Hollian feared from her.

But when her hands closed on his gaunt frame, her nerves felt his excruciation like a jolt of lightning. He was sane: oh, he was sane. And for

that reason, he was defenseless. Even his heritage of Earthpower could not rebuff the self-denunciation and grief which had broken his mind; blinded him; condemned him to decades of starvation and loneliness while he searched for the implications of his fractured past.

Linden’s heart may have grown as ungiving and dark as obsidian; but she could ask nothing of this frail old man. Even to save her son, she could not.

She had already extorted too much pain from Anele. She was done with it.

And behind them stands Thomas Covenant, who craves only that I assure you of his love.

Swallowing grief as acute as rage, Linden said softly, “I want you to understand something. While you still can. I used you. When I was trying to convince the Masters to help me.” And she had contemplated causing him

more hurt. “But I won’t do that again. I’m finished.”

She had learned at least this much from her betrayal by Roger and the croyel. They had wanted her to achieve their ends for them. And their manipulations had nearly destroyed her. But what the croyel was doing to Jeremiah was worse.

“I’ll keep you with me,” she promised. “I’ll protect you as much as I can.” She

had no other hope to offer him. “But I won’t ask you to pay the price for what I want. Not again.”

Anele breathed heavily for a moment. He shuddered in her grasp: his eyes were closed. When he had mastered himself, he replied. “Linden Avery, you are the Chosen, and will determine much.” His low growl echoed Mahrtiir’s severity. “But that choice is not vouchsafed to you. All who live share the Land’s plight. Its cost will be borne

by all who live. This you cannot alter. In the attempt, you may achieve only ruin.”

Then he pulled away from her easily, as if her strength had failed. Leaving her confounded, he handed the orcrest to Liand.

As soon as the stone left his fingers, he appeared to faint.

Too late, Linden snatched at his

slumping form. But Bhapa was quicker. He caught the old man and lowered him gently to the rug.

Obviously the Cord had known what to expect. All of Linden’s friends had known.

“Liand?” she asked in chagrin. “Is he-?”

Liand continued to cradle the orcrest in his palm as though its touch gave him

pleasure. “We have spoken of this,” he answered quietly, gazing at Anele. “We discern no lasting hurt. He will slumber briefly. When he wakes, he will be as he was. In some form, his madness is kindly. It shields him. In its absence, his bereavements would compel despair.” When the young man looked up at Linden, his compassion for Anele filled his eyes. “This we have concluded among ourselves, for we know not how otherwise to comprehend either his pain or his

endurance of it.”

Mahrtiir nodded; and Pahni rested her hand on Liand’s shoulder, sharing his sympathy.

Linden’s knees felt suddenly weak. “God,” she breathed, “I need to sit down.” Unsteadily she moved to the nearest chair and dropped into it. Then she covered her face with her hands, trying to absorb what had just happened.