Fatal Revenant

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Also”—Stave shrugged eloquently—“the Humbled will not willingly forego their duty to the Halfhand, regardless of their disquiet. Therefore they heeded my urging.”

  Stave’s tone reminded Linden that the Humbled would not otherwise have listened to him.

  “They are fools,” growled Mahrtiir.

  “They are Haruchai,” Stave replied without inflection. “I thought as they do. Had I not partaken of the horserite, I would do so still.”

  He deserved gratitude, especially because of his own bereavement; and Linden thanked him as well as she could. Then she asked a different question. “You mentioned the skurj. Why didn’t you say anything about them before we came here?”

  “Chosen?” Stave cocked an eyebrow at her question.

  “You’ve heard Anele talk about them. You were there when that Elohim appeared in Mithil Stonedown,” warning Liand’s people that a bane of great puissance and ferocity in the far north had slipped its bonds and had found release in Mount Thunder. “And you told me yourself that ‘Beasts of Earthpower rage upon Mount Thunder.’ But you haven’t said anything else.”

  Until now, she had not needed to know more—

  “Your people are the Masters of the Land. If something that terrible has been set loose,” something which resembled fiery serpents with the jaws of krakens, something capable of devouring stone and soil, grass and trees, “someone must have at least noticed. I assume that the Masters can’t fight the skurj, but they must be watching, studying, trying to understand.”

  Now Stave nodded. “There has been misapprehension between us. The Masters have no knowledge of the skurj which has not been gleaned from Anele. We—” He stopped himself. “They have beheld no such evil upon the Land. If the skurj have come, they have done so recently, or without exposing themselves to the awareness of the Masters.

  “When I spoke of ‘beasts of Earthpower,’ I should perhaps have named the Fire-Lions of Mount Thunder. I did not because I believed them unknown to you. Their life within Gravin Threndor is ancient, far older than the history of Lords in the Land. They came first to human knowledge in the time of Berek Halfhand, the Lord-Fatherer, who called upon them to destroy the armies of his foes. So the tale was later told to the Bloodguard during the time of Kevin Landwaster. Indeed, it has been sung that the Landwaster himself once stood upon the pinnacle of Gravin Threndor and beheld the Fire-Lions. Thereafter, however, they were not again witnessed until the time of the Unbeliever’s first coming to the Land, when he called upon Gravin Threndor’s beasts for the salvation of his companions.”

  “So it is remembered among the Ramen,” Mahrtiir assented, “for Manethrall Lithe accompanied the Ringthane and his companions into the Wightwarrens, though we loathe the loss of the open sky. She it was who guided the defenders of the Land from those dire catacombs to the slopes of Gravin Threndor. She witnessed the Ringthane’s summoning of the Fire-Lions—and of the Ranyhyn who bore the Ringthane’s companions to safety.”

  “That also the Haruchai have not forgotten,” said Stave. “The courage of the Raman enabled hope which would otherwise have been lost utterly.”

  Linden bit her lower lip and waited for Stave to continue his explanation.

  “Now, however,” he said, “the Fire-Lions are restive. After millennia of concealed life, they may be observed at any time rampaging upon the slopes of Mount Thunder. They present no peril to the Land, for they are beings of Earthpower, as condign after their fashion as the Ranyhyn. But the cause of their restlessness must be a great peril indeed. When the unnamed Elohim spoke of ‘a bane of great puissance and ferocity’ from the far north which had ‘found release’ in Mount Thunder, no Master knew the form or power of that evil, though all presumed it to be the source of the Fire-Lions’ unrest.

  “Upon that occasion, the Elohim also named the skurj.”

  “As they did among the Ramen also,” Mahrtiir put in.

  The Haruchai nodded again. “And Anele has indeed uttered that name repeatedly. But his words revealed nothing of what the skurj might be, or of the Fire-Lions’ unrest. Only when he spoke in the Close did he declare beyond mistake that Kastenessen had been Appointed to contain the skurj, that he has now broken free of his Durance, and that therefore the skurj are a present danger to the Land.

  “For that reason, we”—again he stopped himself—“the Masters, and I as well, conceive that the skurj are not the bane which has been released in Mount Thunder. The Fire-Lions have been too long restless, and such devouring harm as Kastenessen was Appointed to imprison would surely have become manifest to our senses. Rather I deem, as do the Masters, that the bane of which the Elohim spoke, and the cause of the Fire-Lions’ unrest, is Kastenessen himself. We surmise that when he had broken free of his Durance, he came alone to Mount Thunder, preceding his former prisoners. Those creatures are the skurj, as Anele has plainly proclaimed. Only now does Kastenessen summon them to his aid.”

  Kastenessen again, Linden thought darkly. She did not doubt Stave: his explanation fit Anele’s cryptic references to the skurj, the Durance, and the Appointed. Nor did she doubt that when Lord Foul had whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events, he had been speaking to Kastenessen. He may even have told Kastenessen how to shatter or evade his Durance.

  Whether or not the Despiser had also advised Esmer, she could not begin to guess.

  But Lord Foul had Jeremiah. Her son had constructed images of Revelstone and Mount Thunder in her living room. And the Masters had reason to think that Kastenessen now inhabited Mount Thunder.

  Perhaps he was also responsible for Kevin’s Dirt—

  Such speculations left her sick with frustration. They were too abstract: she needed a concrete explanation for what had happened to Covenant and Jeremiah. And she feared the storm of her own emotions when she stood before them again. If they still rejected her touch, she might not be able to think at all.

  Still searching for some form of insight, she asked Stave what he remembered of the Elohim’s portentous visit to Mithil Stonedown. Surely he had heard or understood more than Liand was able to recall?

  He replied with pronounced care, as though she had asked him to touch on subjects that would cause her pain.

  “I can add little to that which the Ramen have revealed, or to the Stonedown’s memory of the event. I saw the Elohim for what he was, oblique and devious. Such names as merewives, Sandgorgons, and croyel were known to me, as they are to you, though they conveyed naught to the Stonedownors. Also the Haruchai have heard it said, as you have, that there is a shadow upon the heart of the Elohim.

  “But of the skurj we knew nothing. The Masters do not grasp the purpose of the Elohim’s appearance, for they cannot comprehend his warning against the halfhand. Indeed, they honor those who have been titled Halfhands, both Berek Lord-Fatherer and ur-Lord Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. The Humbled are a token of that honor, as they are of the fault which doomed the Bloodguard.”

  A premature twilight dimmed the air as Linden and her companions strode among the low hills. She had been on the plateau longer than she realized. The sun was not yet setting; but the peaks of the Westron Mountains reached high, and the dark clouds behind them piled higher still. She seemed to cross into shadow as Stave answered her.

  “Yet, Chosen—” The Haruchai hesitated, apparently uncertain that he should continue. However, he had declared his loyalty to her. His tone remained dispassionate as he said, “I have been cast out from the Masters, but they cannot silence their thoughts. They merely refuse to heed me if I do not speak aloud. For that reason, I know that they are disturbed by the knowledge that your son also is a halfhand.”

  Linden flinched involuntarily; but she did not interrupt.

  “In the time of the new Lords,” Stave continued, “the Unbeliever was considered by some the reincarnation of Berek Heartthew, for their legends said that Berek would one day return. It may be that the Elohim fear the Unbeliever because his presence, the rebirth of H
igh Lord Berek’s potent spirit, will dim their own import in the Earth. Or it may be that the Elohim seek to warn the Land against your son, seeing in him a peril which is hidden from us.”

  No, stop, Linden protested inwardly. I can’t think—Without noticing what she did, she dragged her fingers roughly through the tangles of her hair: she needed that smaller hurt to contain her larger shock. What, you suspect that my son is a threat to the Land? Now what am I supposed to do? Jeremiah had recovered his mind. He had recovered his mind. How could she bear to believe that he had become dangerous? That the Elohim saw danger in him?

  Or in Covenant—?

  Where had Jeremiah’s mind been while she had tried and failed for years to reach it?

  After a moment, Mahrtiir said gruffly, “This gains nothing, Stave. That we have cause for concern is plain enough. But the youth is no son of ours. We cannot gaze upon him as the Ringthane must. And the burden of determination is not ours, for we hold neither white gold nor the Staff of Law. She will speak with the Unbeliever and her son, and her wisdom and valor will guide her. The speculations of the Masters—mere imaginings, for the truth remains shrouded—serve only to tarnish her clarity.”

  The Manethrall’s words offered Linden a way to calm her turmoil. He was right: she could not guess the truth of Jeremiah’s condition—or of Covenant’s. She needed to fight her impulse to jump to conclusions.

  “She will learn what she can,” Mahrtiir said, “and do what she must. This the Ramen understand, who have spent their lives in the service of the Ranyhyn. But the Masters have lost such wisdom, for they conceive themselves equal to that which they serve. Among your people, you alone recognize their fault”—the Manethrall grinned sharply—“humbling my pride as you do so, for the Ramen also are not without fault. We have permitted ourselves to forget that at one time, when the Bloodguard had ended their service to the Lords, some few of them chose instead to serve the Ranyhyn among the Ramen. Foolishly we have nurtured our disdain toward the sleepless ones across the centuries, and so we have proffered distrust where honor has been earned.

  “Together we must now be wary that we do not teach the Ringthane to share our ancient taints. We may be certain that she will serve the Land and her own loves. No other knowledge is required of us.”

  Although her heart trembled, Linden pushed aside the warning of the Elohim. She could not afford to be confused by fears that had no name.

  She and her companions were nearing the wide passage that angled down into Lord’s Keep. There she stopped so that she would not be overheard by the Masters who presumably guarded the passage. Resting her free hand on Stave’s shoulder, she turned to meet the Manethrall’s whetted gaze.

  “Thank you,” she said gravely. “That helps.” Then she faced Stave. “And thank you. I need to know anything that you can tell me. Even if it makes me crazy.” She grimaced ruefully. “But Mahrtiir is right. I can’t think about everything right now. We have too many problems. I need to take them as they come.

  “We’re running out of time. I know that. Those Demondim aren’t going to wait much longer.” And when they resumed their siege, they would unfurl the full virulence of the Illearth Stone from its source in the deep past. “But I can’t worry about them yet.” She knew what she had to do. “First I need to talk to Covenant and Jeremiah.”

  The gloom on the upland continued to darken as storm clouds hid the sun.

  “I hope that you’ll forgive me,” she told Stave. “There might be things that I can’t talk about in front of you.” Not until she knew more about the Unbeliever and her son—and about where she stood with them. “If you can still hear the Masters’ thoughts, I have to assume that they can hear yours. And if they even half believe that Jeremiah is a threat—” She swallowed a lump of distress. “I can’t take the chance that they’ll get in my way.”

  Stave faced her stolidly. “No forgiveness is needful. I do not question you. The Masters are indeed able to hear my thoughts—should they deign to do so. Speak to me of nothing which may foster their opposition.”

  Mutely Mahrtiir gave the former Master a deep Ramen bow. And Linden squeezed his shoulder. She wanted to hug him—to acknowledge his understanding as well as his losses—but she did not trust herself. Her emotions gathered like the coming storm. If she could not emulate his stoic detachment when she confronted Covenant and her son—and if they still refused her touch—she would be routed like a scatter of dry leaves.

  Millennia ago, Covenant had promised that he would never use power again. But he was using power now: he was folding time. He might ask for his ring. Why else had he come so unexpectedly? He might demand—

  And somehow Jeremiah had obtained his own magic.

  If either of them accepted Linden’s embrace now, she would certainly lose control of herself. And she feared the costs of her vulnerability.

  At the end of the long tunnel down into the ramified convolutions of Revelstone, Linden, Stave, and Mahrtiir were met by Galt of the Humbled. He greeted them with a small inclination of his head, hardly a nod, and announced that he would guide the Chosen to speak with ur-Lord Thomas Covenant.

  Linden paused to address Mahrtiir and Stave again. “I have to do this alone.” Her voice was tight with trepidation. “But I hope that you’ll stay nearby, Stave.

  “Mahrtiir, it might be a good idea to take Liand and the others to Glimmermere. Drink the water. Go swimming. Anele won’t, but the rest of you will be better off.” Unnecessarily she added, “There’s a storm coming, but it doesn’t feel like the kind of weather that can hurt you.”

  When the Manethrall had bowed to her and walked away, she returned her attention to Galt.

  “All right,” she said softly. “Let’s do this. I’m tired of waiting.”

  Saying nothing, the Humbled led her and Stave into the intricate gutrock of Revelstone’s secrets.

  The way had been prepared for her, by the Masters if not by Revelstone’s servants. Torches interspersed with oil lamps lit the unfamiliar halls, corridors, stairs. Some of the passages were blunt stone: others, strangely ornate, elaborated by Giants for reasons entirely their own. But the inadequate illumination left the details caliginous, obscure.

  As Galt guided her downward and inward, she sensed that he was taking her toward the Keep’s outer wall where it angled into the northwest from the watchtower. The complications of his route—abrupt turns, ascents instead of descents, corridors that seemed to double back on themselves—might have confused her; but her refreshed percipience protected her from disorientation. Concentrating acutely, she felt sure that she was nearing her destination when the Humbled steered her into a plain hallway where there were no more lamps or torches after the first score or so paces.

  Beside the last lamp, a door indistinguishable from the one to Linden’s quarters defined the wall of the corridor. She wanted to pause there, rally her courage, before she faced the uncertain possibilities behind the door. But when Galt knocked, a stone-muffled voice called promptly, “Come in.”

  Even through the barrier of rock, she seemed to recognize Covenant’s stringent tone; his harsh commandments.

  Without hesitation, Galt pressed the door open and gestured for Linden to enter.

  Even then she might have faltered. But from beyond the doorway, she heard the faint crackle and snap of burning wood, saw firelight reflect redly off the stone. And there was another glow as well: not the flame of lamps or torches, but the tenebrous admixture of the fading day.

  Such homely details steadied her. Very well: Thomas Covenant and her son were still human enough to want a fire against the residual chill of the stone, and to leave their windows open for the last daylight. She would be able to bear seeing them again.

  Even if they still refused her touch—

  For a brief moment, she braced herself on Stave’s inflexible aura. Then she left him in the corridor. Biting her lip, she crossed the threshold into the chambers that the Masters had made available to Covenant and Jeremia
h.

  As she did so, Galt shut the door. He remained outside with Stave.

  She found herself in a room larger than her own small quarters. A dozen or more people could have seated themselves comfortably around the walls: she saw almost that many stone chairs and wooden stools. Among them, a low table as large as the door held the remains of an abundant repast—bread and dried fruit, several kinds of cured meat, stew in a wide stoneware pot, and clay pitchers of both water and some other drink which smelled faintly of aliantha and beer. The floor was covered to the walls by a rough flaxen rug raddled to an ochre like that of the robe of the old man who should have warned her of her peril.

  A large hearth shining with flames occupied part of the wall to her left. Above it hung a thick tapestry woven predominantly in blues and reds which must have been bright until time had dimmed their dyes. The colors depicted a stylized central figure surrounded by smaller scenes; but Linden recognized nothing about the arras, and did not try to interpret it.

  Four other doors marked the walls. Three of them apparently gave access to chambers that she could not see: two bedrooms, perhaps, and a bathroom. But the fourth stood open directly opposite her, revealing a wide balcony with a crenellated parapet. Beyond the parapet, she could see a sky dimmed by late afternoon shadows.

  On this side, Revelstone faced somewhat east of north. Here the cliffs which protected the Keep’s wedge and the plateau cut off direct sunshine. From the balcony, the fields that fed Revelstone’s inhabitants would be visible. And off to the right, along the wall toward the southeast, would be at least a glimpse of the massed horde of the Demondim.

  Then Thomas Covenant said her name, and she could no longer gaze anywhere except at him—and at her son.

  Her pulse hammered painfully in her chest as she stared at Covenant and Jeremiah. They were much as she had seen them in the forehall; too explicitly themselves to be anyone else despite their subtle alterations. Jeremiah sprawled with the unconsidered gracelessness of a teenager in one of the stone chairs, grinning with covert pleasure or glee. Although Lord Foul must have tortured him—must have been torturing him at this moment—his features retained their half-undefined youth. But the imminent drooling which had marked his slack mouth for years was gone. An insistent tic at the corner of his left eye contradicted his relaxed posture.