Fatal Revenant

watching her, wary and unreadable, through slits in the ceiling of the tunnel; but she could not discern what they expected from her.

During her previous time in the Land, she had been able to rely on the Haruchai even when they distrusted her. For a moment, the fact that she could not do so now filled her with bitterness. But then she passed between the teeth of the outer gates, and had no more attention to spare for the intransigence of the Masters.

Night held the slowly sloping plain beyond the watchtower and the massive prow of Revelstone. High in the eastern sky, a gibbous moon cast its silver sheen over the ground where the Demondim had raged, seething with frustration and corrosive lore. The aftereffects of their ancient hatred lingered in the bare dirt. But overhead a profusion of stars filled the heavens, glittering gems in swaths and multitudes untouched by the small concerns of suffering and death. They formed no constellations that she knew, but she found solace in them nonetheless.

Following Stave through the darkness, she was glad to be reminded that her fears and powers were little things, too evanescent and human to impinge upon the immeasurable cycles of the stars. Her life depended on what she did. It was possible that Stave and the Humbled and all of Revelstone’s people were at risk. In ways which she could not yet imagine, Jeremiah’s survival-and perhaps that of the Land as well-might hang in the balance. Yet the stars took no notice: they would not. She was too small to determine their doom.

As was the man who had destroyed the Demondim. He might well surpass her. But while the heavens endured, she could afford to push her limits until they broke-or she did. Like her, the stranger lacked the power to decide the destinies of stars.

In faint silver, Stave led Linden forward; and when she lowered her gaze from the sky, she saw the flickering of a campfire. Its lively flames cast the stranger into shadow, but he appeared to be seated with his back to her and his head bowed. If he heard her steps, or sensed the advancing Haruchai, he gave no sign. His limned shape remained motionless.

Within a dozen paces of the stranger, Linden halted Stave with a touch on his shoulder. He glanced at her, a quick flash of reflected firelight in his eye. Drawing him with her, she began to circle around the campfire so that she could approach the stranger in plain sight, unthreateningly-and so that she could watch his reactions.

She expected the Humbled to accompany her, but they did not. Instead they stopped where she and Stave had paused, no more than a few running strides from the stranger’s back. Swearing to herself, she considered gesturing-or calling aloud-for them to join her. But she felt sure that they would ignore her.

Grateful for Stave’s presence at her side, she continued to circle toward the far side of the fire.

As she entered the stranger’s range of vision, he lifted his head slowly. But he did not react in any other way until she and Stave stood near the flames. Then, as lithe and easy as if he had not been sitting still for days, he rose to his feet.

“Lady,” he said in a voice as deep and rich as the loam of a river delta. “Haruchai. You are well come. I feared that I would be compelled to await you for seasons rather than mere days. Such is the obduracy of those who rule yon delved dwelling.”

Linden stared at him, unable to mask her surprise. She had heard that voice somewhere before-

He was clad all in leather, and all in subtle shades of brown. Nevertheless his garb was unexpectedly elaborate: if its hues had been less harmonious, it would have seemed foppish. Boots incused with arcane symbols extended up his calves almost to his knees, then folded down over themselves and ended in dangling tassels. Leggings that looked as supple as water clung to his thighs, emphasising their contours. Above them, he wore a frocked doublet ornately worked with umber beads, the sleeves deeply cuffed. It was snug at the waist, unbelted, and hemmed with a long, flowing fringe. From his shoulders hung a short dun chlamys secured by a bronze clasp: the only piece of metal in his costume. The clasp resembled a ploughshare.

If he bore any weapons, they were concealed under his chlamys or inside his doublet.

He had a lean, muscular figure with strong hands, a neatly trimmed beard, and close-cropped hair. And every shade of his features, from his weathered cheeks and mouth to his hair and whiskers, blended subtly with the browns of his raiment. The combined effect suggested that his garments were not mere clothing: they expressed his identity.

But his eyes were a startling black, so stark and lustreless that they might have been holes or caves leading into subterranean depths.

Disturbed in spite of her efforts to prepare herself, Linden instinctively avoided meeting his gaze. Instead of looking directly into his face, she let her eyes wander over his broad shoulders, down the fluid folds of the chlamys. As far as she could discern with her health-sense, he was simply a man, devoid of magic or force. But at one time, she had mistaken the Mahdoubt for an ordinary woman. Even the Masters had done so. And Linden had failed to detect the Theomach’s secret puissance-

She held her runed Staff and Covenant’s ring. Alone, she had beaten Roger and the croyel back from the brink of the Land’s doom-and she had done it without drawing on wild magic. Yet she felt oddly abashed in the stranger’s presence; unsure of herself; exposed and frail.

His voice was familiar. Where had she heard it before?

She wanted to speak confidently, but her voice was an unsteady whisper. “You ate them? You ate the Demondim?”

The stranger laughed briefly, a comfortable sound with a slight trace of ridicule. “Alas, lady, that is imprecise. Were I able to consume them, I would have taken their power into myself and become stronger. Belike I would then have no need of you.

“No, the truth is merely that I have made a considerable study of such beings. Their lore is both potent and unnatural. It holds a great fascination for me. For many and many a long year, I have devoted myself to the comprehension of their theurgy. And I have learned the trick of unbinding them.”

Linden’s eyes flicked close to his. “Unbinding?”

He inclined his head. “Indeed, lady. Having no tangible forms, they would be lost to will and deed without some containing ensorcellment to preserve them from dissolution. Imagine,” he explained. “that they are bound to themselves by threads of lore and purpose. The threads are many, but if one alone is plucked and severed, all unravel.

“Thus I disposed of the Demondim, for their presence in this time endangered my desires.”

Again she felt her gaze drawn toward his. With an effort, she forced herself to concentrate on the centre of his forehead. At her side, Stave stood without movement or speech, as if he saw no threat in the stranger, and had lost interest.

Yet he, too, had heard that voice before. It had addressed Linden through Anele after she had quenched the horde’s caesure. She remembered it clearly now.

Such power becomes you. But it will not suffice.

Abruptly she stood straighter, holding her Staff like an asseveration. This stranger had imposed himself on Anele; had taken advantage of the old man’s vulnerability. As far as she knew, he had only done so once. But once was enough to win her animosity. He was not Thomas Covenant, striving to help her in spite of the boundaries of life and death. He was simply careless of Anele’s suffering.

In the end, you must succumb. If you do not, you will nonetheless be compelled to accept my aid, for which I will demand recompense.

Ignoring the seduction of the stranger’s eyes, Linden said like the first soft touch of a flail, before it began to swing in earnest. “You’re one of the Insequent.”

Stave must have guessed that the stranger belonged to the same race as the Mahdoubt and the Theomach

Now the stranger’s laugh was ripe with pleasure. “Lady, I am. You are known to me, together with all of your acts and powers, and your great peril. Permit me the honour of presenting myself. I am the Harrow.”

He bowed with courtesy as elaborate as his apparel; but Linden did not. Already she was starting to loathe the sound of his voice. He was not the first to foretell failure for her. But he had hurt Anele-

Before she could retort, however, a rush of movement behind the Harrow caught her attention. She looked past him in time to see the Humbled emerge from the darkness, flinging themselves as one at his undefended back.

Instinctively she cried out, “No!” but the Masters ignored her. Galt leaped high to punch at the Harrow’s head. Clyme drove a kick at the centre of his spine while Branl dove for his knees.