Fatal Revenant

In Berek Halfhand’s camp, Linden had gone without hesitation to do what she could for the victims of his war. This was different. The Woodhelvennin were not wounded: their hearts rather than their bodies had been pierced. With all of her power, she could not make their spirits whole again.

And she had shared no responsibility for the sufferings of Berek’s warriors. First Woodhelven’s razing she could have prevented, if she had insisted on haste hours earlier, when her company had broken camp-

If she had not restored Joan’s wedding band-

She hardly noticed that the Ranyhyn, the whole company, had slowed to a halt on the rise above the shattered grove. A deep rage held her attention.

Roger had said of Falls, Wherever they are at a particular moment, every bit of time in that precise spot happens at once. He had tried to explain why the fabric of reality had not already been irreparably shredded. Since they’re moving, they give those bits of time back as fast as they pick up new ones. In addition, the Law of Time strove to preserve itself. Presumably Thomas Covenant himself fought to defend it. And Joan’s inability to concentrate prevented the caesures from expanding to consume everything. Thus the larger integrity of causality and sequence endured despite the severity of the Falls.

Nevertheless the restoration of Law as the caesure passed contributed to its destructiveness. Every instant of First Woodhelven’s life had been superimposed-and then those instants had been flung back into their natural order. The result was a doubled violation. In effect, the Fall’s departure did as much harm as its arrival.

Linden concentrated on such things in an effort to control the wild scramble of guilt and sorrow that made her want to rage at the heavens rather than seek some means to ease the villagers. In another moment, she might turn her back on them. She hungered to ride like vengeance after the Fall and rip it out of existence. The eldritch storm surrounding it she would sweep aside. She had stood on Gallows Howe: she yearned to repay savagery with destruction.

“Chosen.” Stave put his hand on her arm as if to pull her back from a kind of insanity. “The fault is mine. I urged caution when you craved haste.”

In response, Mahrtiir made a fierce spitting sound. “Do not speak of fault here, Haruchai. Neither you nor the Ringthane is gifted with foreknowledge. There is no fault. There is only the need of these stricken Woodhelvennin.”

Fault, Linden thought, biting her lip until it bled. Oh, there was fault, and plenty of it. The Manethrall was right: she could not have known. Even Joan, abused and broken, did not deserve blame. But Lord Foul was another matter. Kastenessen and Roger, the Ravers and the skurj and the croyel: the Despiser had aimed them like a barrage at the Land.

“All right,” she said with her mouth full of blood. “I understand. Let’s go see what we can do for those poor people.”

But she did not move. Instead she struggled to suppress her outrage. She needed a moment of clarity, of containment, in which she might regain some aspect of the Linden Avery who healed. That woman had never fully emerged from the depths of Melenkurion Skyweir.

There must be something-

Rubbing the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, she tightened the grip of her heels on Hyn’s flanks; mutely asked the mare to approach the remains of First Woodhelven. But as Hyn began to walk, Galt called sharply. “Linden Avery!”

He rode a short way off to her right, guarding the company from the south. When she jerked a look at him, he announced, “The Fall’s course has been altered. It turns toward us, compelled by some power which we do not recognise. And it moves swiftly. If it does not veer aside, it will soon be upon us.”

Flinching, Linden snatched her percipience toward the south and saw that he was right. The caesure was retracing its ruin, harried by a palpable cloudless storm. And it was coming fast-

Some silent part of her snarled curses, but she paid no attention to them. The Fall’s advance evoked a different clarity than the one that she had tried to impose on herself.

“Go!” she shouted at Galt and his comrades as though she had the right to command them. “Get those people out of there,” away from their riven homes, their lost lives. “Take them west. I’ll try to snuff that thing. But I don’t know what I’m up against. If something goes wrong, they’ll be right in front of it.”

If the skurj came, they would approach from the east.

Because he was a Master, she expected him to refuse. Yet he did not. Wheeling his Ranyhyn, he headed at a gallop into the lowland.

Immediately Branl joined him. Clyme took a moment to unsling the slate from his back and pass it in its harness to Stave, transferring responsibility for Anele. Then he sped after the other Humbled.

In their minds, all three of them may have been calling to the Masters among the Woodhelvennin.

So many people-It would take time to rally them. They were too stunned to think for themselves.

“Mahrtiir!” Linden flung a gesture after the Humbled. “Help those people. What’s coming isn’t just a Fall. Somebody is pushing that thing.” Someone nearby: someone who wanted the caesure to devour the Woodhelvennin-or to assail her. “Get as many of them on horses as you can. Make them move.”

When the Manethrall hesitated, she urged him, “Go! Leave Liand and Anele with me.” She could not ask Liand to watch over Anele and aid the villagers at the same time; and the old man was close to panic, filled by the old dread which had driven him to climb Kevin’s Watch. If he left Hrama’s back and tried to fend for himself-if his feet touched barren ground- “Stave will take care of them.”

“Ringthane.” Mahrtiir nodded an acknowledgment, then turned Narunal to follow the Humbled. As the Ranyhyn gathered speed, the Manethrall shouted. “Cords!”

Bhapa was already in motion, racing to catch up with Mahrtiir. Pahni gave Liand a quick desperate look before she sent Naharahn after Whrany.

Liand had already taken out his orcrest. He gripped it tightly while he murmured to Hrama and Rhohm, imploring them to stay together.

The sight of Liand’s Sunstone made Anele cower as if he feared it-feared sanity-more than the caesure.

On all sides of Linden and her remaining companions were flint, shale, eroded sandstone, dirt. Hardly a hundred paces away lay the torn path of the Fall. If Anele dismounted, even for a moment, Kastenessen would find him. The pain-maddened Elohim would know where to send the skurj. And if he gained full possession of the old man, he might attack Linden directly while she fought the caesure and its unseen drover.

Kastenessen might already be somewhere nearby. Surely he was capable of herding a Fall wherever he wished?

“How long-?” Abruptly she found that she could not speak: her throat was too dry. She had to swallow several times before she could ask Stave, “How much time do we have?”

The Haruchai gazed into the south for a moment, then glanced behind him to consider the tree-dwellers. “If the Woodhelvennin comprehend their peril, and do not refuse to be commanded, they will be spared.”

If the Fall did not change directions to pursue them-

“In that case”- Linden took a deep breath, held it, let it out-let’s go down there.” She indicated the furrowed ground where the Fall had passed. “We’ll be able to see farther.”

On this terrain, one place would not be more dangerous than another for Anele.

Stave nodded. Beckoning for Liand and Anele to follow, he nudged Hynyn into a trot, angling across the slope to keep his distance from the blasted village while he sought an unobstructed view to the south.

Fighting her urgent anger, Linden dropped back briefly to ride beside Liand. “You know what you have to do?”

His black eyebrows accentuated the apprehension in his eyes. “Linden?”

“Remember what I told you,” she ordered brusquely. “Protect Anele. Whatever happens. Get Stave to help you if you need him. I’ll stop the caesure.” Somehow. “But you have to keep Anele away from Kastenessen. We can’t face another attack right now.”