Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (108 page)

In that aspect of their limitless sojourn, she understood them better than she did the Giants. They calmed her as if

she were in the presence of kindred spirits.

Gradually she let her attention return to Andelain, to the gentle embrace of health-and to the reasons that had compelled her here. But she did not rejoin the Giants, or listen to their stories and pain. Instead, certain of Stave’s notice, she beckoned the former Master toward her.

He came to her softly, more silent than

the drifting breeze. Under the stars, he asked in a low voice. “Linden’?”

It was the second time that he had called her by her given name.

His friendship touched her-and she did not want to be touched. More brusquely than she intended, she asked. “What are the Humbled going to say when they get back to Revelstone?” We will speak with one voice-What will they tell the

Masters?”

Stave made a small sound that may have been a snort. “They remain uncertain. The Giants threaten the defined service of the Masters. It is their nature to do so. With tales alone, they wield power to overthrow millennia of dedication and sacrifice. Yet in all ways they merit admiration. Therefore the Humbled withhold appraisal. They will adjudge the Giants according to your deeds rather than theirs.”

Oh, good, Linden thought mordantly. That’s perfect. It galled her to think that the attitude of the Masters toward the Giants depended on her. But then she swallowed her vexation. Whatever the Humbled decided was their problem, not hers. She could not make their choices for them. She would simply have to live with the consequences.

Sighing, she said, “This is Andelain, Stave. You might think that here, at least,” if nowhere else in the Land. “it

would be acceptable for the Giants to be who they are.”

“Yet Andelain is not free of peril,” he returned stolidly. “It may be that Kastenessen and the skurj cannot enter. Nonetheless the fate of the Land is the fate of Andelain as well. I do not concur with the Humbled, but I comprehend their doubt. In some measure, I share it.”

You share-? He startled her. In

dozens of ways, he had declared his loyalty.

“Chosen,” he explained. “you have not revealed your deeper purpose. You have not named your hopes for the unfathomable theurgies which the krill of Loric Vilesilencer will enable. By your own word, you desire those around you to know doubt.

“I do not seek to question you,” he stated before she could respond. “I am

content in the knowledge that you are Linden Avery the Chosen, Sun-Sage and Ringthane, companion of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. To me, you are ‘acceptable’ in all things.

“Yet I am constrained by doubt to inquire if you also are uncertain. Have you not found cause to reconsider your intent’?”

Linden stared at him in darkness. The stars shed too little light to unmask his

features, and her health-sense could not reach into the mind or emotions of any Haruchai. She was barely able to discern the new skin where she had healed Stave’s burns.

Without inflection, he continued, “We stand now within the safety of Andelain. Here choices may diverge. Other paths lie before you. If you must confront your Dead, you do not require Loric’s krill to do so. And Gravin Threndor may be approached without

risk, though hazards wait within the Wightwarrens. It is there-is it not?- that Kevin’s Dirt has its source. Are not Gravin Threndor’s depths conceivable as a hiding place for the Unbeliever’s son, and for your own?”

Linden wanted to cover her face. Jeremiah had built an image of Mount Thunder in her living room, as he had of Revelstone. Eventually she would have to go into the catacombs under the mountain: she knew that. But not

yet—

Not while she was still so weak.

“I’m not Covenant,” she answered softly. “I’m not Berek, or some other hero. I’m just me. And I could be wrong. Of course I could be wrong. This whole thing might turn out to be a monumental exercise in futility.” Or something worse-“That’s possible. It’s absolutely possible.”

The breeze seemed to pause as if it wanted to hear her. Andelain itself appeared to hold its breath. In the distance, the voices of the Giants withdrew to a nearly inaudible murmur.

She needed to be doubted because she could not afford to doubt herself.

But I have to have more power. Covenant’s ring is useless whenever Esmer decides to interfere. Kevin’s Dirt hampers Earthpower. If Jeremiah”-

oh, my son!-“stood right in front of me, I might not be able to save him. I don’t know how to kill the croyel without killing him. I’m just not that strong.

And look at who wants to stop me.” She gathered force as she spoke. “Look at who wants to help. Kastenessen and Roger and the Ravers have tried hard to kill us. The ur-viles and Waynhim are united, for God’s sake, even though they’re the

last, and too many of them are dead. The Mandoubt gave up everything to protect me. I must be doing something right.”

“Chosen-” Stave tried to interrupt her, but she was not finished.

“Lord Foul has my son. I’m going to get him back. But first I need more power.”

“Chosen,” Stave said again more firmly. “Longwrath approaches

Andelain.”

Oh, shit. Wheeling, Linden projected her senses toward Salva Gildenbourne.

Almost immediately, she felt

Longwrath’s unbridled rage. It was lurid in the darkness, a cynosure of hunger and desperation. The last trees still shrouded him, but he was heading straight toward her with his flamberge in his fists. Evanescent glints like phosphorescence wavered along the

edges of his blade as though the iron had been forged to catch and hold starshine.

For the first time, Linden wondered whether his sword might be an instrument of magic. If his weapon had been formed with theurgy as well as fire, however, the effects were no longer perceptible. They had been attenuated by too much time-or they had been designed for circumstances which no longer existed.

The Swordmainnir seemed unaware of Longwrath. They were not done with their caamora: it held them like a geas. The Ramen and Liand remained transfixed by what they witnessed. But the Humbled were already moving, silent as thought.

Surely three Haruchai would suffice to restrain Longwrath until the caamora ended?

Nonetheless Linden tightened her grip

on the Staff. Stave walked a little way down the slope to place himself between her and Longwrath.

But Esmer had told her the truth. Andelain is preserved. Suddenly a small piece of night appeared to condense as if something blurred or invisible had come into focus; made itself real. Without transition, a yellow light like the delicate flame of a candle began to dance along the grass. As precise and self-contained as a single

note of song, it bobbed some distance beyond the Giants. Yet it conveyed the impression that the distance was irrelevant. If the flame had shone directly in front of Linden, it would have been no larger-and no less vivid.

She recognized it instantly. It was a Wraith: one of the Wraiths of Andelain. She had seen its like before, during that cruel and necessary night when Sunder had slain Caer-Caveral with Loric’s krill so that Hollian could live

again. Wraiths had appeared then, dozens of them, hundreds, to mourn the passing of the last Forestal’s music, and to celebrate what Sunder and Hollian had become.

The sight compelled an involuntary gasp from Linden. For a moment, she forgot Longwrath and every peril. The Wraith incarnated Andelain’s eldritch beauty: it entranced her. Its beauty reminded her of loss and resurrection; of broken Law and death that enabled

life and victory. And it made Thomas Covenant live again in her mind, her savior and lover, whose consternation and courage had ruled him as severely as commandments.

I can’t help you unless you find me.

Everything for which she had struggled since her escape from Melenkurion Skyweir was contingent upon him.

Then the moment passed-and the

Wraith was not alone. Another appeared near Linden, and another among the Ramen. Exquisite candle flames pranced over the hillside, more and more of them, until at least a score had become manifest.

They seemed to cast a spell over the caamora as they swept down the slope toward Longwrath. Even the Humbled paused as if they were amazed.

As soon as Longwrath’s foot touched

the palpable demarcation between Salva Gildenbourne and Andelain, the Wraiths arrayed themselves in front of him. Together they gyred and flared as though they meant to ensorcel his madness.

Linden held her breath. At the edge of the stream, Longwrath hesitated. Yellow warmth illuminated his confusion. Other beings also act in Andelain’s defense. Although they exerted no magic that Linden could

detect, the Wraiths formed a barrier against Longwrath’s craving for death.

Then he roared in defiance and charged at the lucent denial of the flames-

-and staggered as if he had collided with a wall. In some fashion that baffled Linden, he was shoved back. Each Wraith was a note, and together they formed a lush chord of rejection. As they danced, they looked small and

frail; easily plucked from the air. Yet they refused Longwrath despite his size and strength.

His rage scaled higher as he charged again. The Wraiths took no visible notice of him. They merely swirled, bright and lovely, and self-absorbed as stars, as though they had no purpose except to be themselves: the simple fact of their existence summed up their significance. Nonetheless they repulsed Longwrath so firmly that he

nearly fell.

Now he cut at them with his sword. His flamberge wove and slashed among the flames as if its dance might equal theirs. But his vehemence could not touch the Wraiths. They only flickered and burned, and were unharmed.

His fury became a scream that threatened to tear his throat; his lungs. Still the Wraiths did not permit him to advance. They made no discernible

effort to elude his blade, yet their chord remained inviolate.

Then one of them swooped closer to alight delicately on the scar that disfigured his visage.

At once, his scream rose into a shriek. He plunged backward, pounding at his face with fists that still clutched his sword. An instant later, the Wraith danced away; but he continued to strike and flounder after the flame was

gone.

Finally he appeared to realize that he was no longer threatened; and his cry turned to rent sobs. Stumbling to his feet, he fled back into the forest. Behind him, dismay and horror seemed to linger in the air. When they faded at last, he had passed beyond the reach of Linden’s percipience.

Shuddering, she began to breathe again.

After a moment, Stave observed quietly. “Andelain is indeed warded. Yet the Wraiths refuse none but Longwrath. Perhaps the shades of Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand are mistaken.” Darkness consumes you. Doom awaits you in the company of the Dead. “Perhaps there is no peril in your craving for Loric’s krill-or in your chosen ire.”

The Wraiths had permitted Anele. They had permitted Linden herself. By

forbidding Longwrath, they had

countered Stave’s doubt.

Until she concentrated on Stave’s voice and understood what he was saying, she did not realize that the flames had scattered. Somehow they had

wandered away without calling

attention to their departure.

The Despiser has planned long and cunningly for your presence, and his snares are many.

Simultaneously bemused and troubled, Linden began to take notice of her companions once more. Around the fire, the caamora of the Giants had ended. At first, she did not know whether they had finished grieving. But the mood of their ritual had been broken-or the time for it had passed. They moved slowly, glancing around with a dazed air as if they had been dazzled by the Wraiths. Liand and the Ramen seemed to rouse themselves from reveries or dreams.

Then Linden looked at the

Swordmainnir more closely and saw that they had relieved their sorrow. Although some sadness remained, they were ready now to bear Moire Squareset’s death, and Scend Wavegift’s.

They had assuaged their bereavement with fire. Long ago, Covenant had done the same for the Dead of The Grieve.

In her own way, Linden intended to

follow their example.

The company talked for a while, eating treasure-berries and considering what lay ahead of them. The Humbled said

nothing; but Stave offered the

unsurprising information that the

Masters knew the location of Loric’s krill. The eldritch blade remained where Linden had last seen it after Caer

Caveral’s passing and Hollian’s

resurrection. Doubtless the Masters had taken pains to ensure that the krill was forgotten; that Andelain itself was forgotten. And the Earthpower of the Hills had prevented the Land’s enemies from removing or using High Lord Loric’s weapon.

However, the desultory conversations did not last long. All of Linden’s companions were profoundly weary. And in every respect, Andelain

comforted their strained nerves, their burdened hearts. The air filled their lungs with relaxation: their bodies absorbed reassurance from the grass: the scents of flowers and fruit trees and aliantha promised sanctuary. Even the darkness had a hushed and reverent timbre, a tone of reified consolation.

Soon Pahni and then Bhapa drifted into slumber. When Liand stretched out beside Pahni on the soft hillside, he fell

asleep almost immediately. One by one, the Giants did the same until only Coldspray, Mahrtiir, the Haruchai, and Linden remained awake.

Confident that the Humbled, Stave, and perhaps Mahrtiir would keep watch when the Ironhand finally slept, Linden let herself lie down on the long balm of the grass. Reflexively she confirmed the presence of Jeremiah’s racecar in her pocket and Covenant’s ring under her shirt. Because her clothes were still

damp, she wondered idly whether the spring night would grow cold enough to trouble her rest. Yet mere moments seemed to pass before she was awakened by sunlight rising beyond the tall monarchs of Andelain and Salva Gildenbourne.