Fatal Revenant

head. Her eyes seemed to fall closed of their own accord. Instead of spending the night as she had imagined, striving to make sense of Esmer and Covenant and her son, she went almost helplessly to her bed.

As soon as she took off her clothes and stretched out under the blankets, she sank into a sleep as empty and unfathomable as the loneliness between the stars. If she dreamed or cried out, she did not know it.

One short night was not enough. She needed whole days of tranquillity and balm. Nevertheless she was awake and dressed, as ready as she would ever be, when a knock at her door announced that her friends had returned for her. Some unconscious awareness of time had roused her so that she could try to prepare herself.

She had opened her shutters briefly to look out at the weather. A drenching rain fell steadily, obscuring any hint of dawn’s approach; and the damp breeze brought memories of winter from the ice-clogged peaks to the west. The prospect of being soaked and chilled felt like foreboding as she closed the shutters and left the lingering embers in the hearth in order to answer the summons of her friends and Revelstone’s need.

Stave stood outside with the Ramen, Liand, and Anele. Liand and Anele wore woollen cloaks, heavy and hooded, although the Ramen and the former Master apparently disdained such protections. But over one arm, Stave carried a cloak for Linden.

Her companions offered her a subdued greeting which she hardly returned: she had already begun to sink into herself, focusing her concentration on the friable structure of her resolve-and on her percipience itself, striving to sharpen her health-sense so that she might be able to penetrate the mystic obfuscations of the Demondim. Distractedly she accepted the cloak from Stave, shrugged it over her shoulders. Clinging to the Staff, she nodded to indicate that she was as ready as she would ever be.

She can do this. Tell her I said that.

Flanked by Stave and Mahrtiir, with the Cords, Liand, and Anele behind her, she set out to confront the innominate powers of the Vile-spawn.

Although she had not said so, she wanted to reach the highest possible vantage above the horde. There distance and rain might conceal her from the monsters until she was prepared to unfurl the Staff’s fire. But Stave appeared to grasp her unspoken desires. Without a word, he led her where she needed to go.

Tense and determined, her small company passed along the intricate passages of the Keep to the wide tunnel which led like a road toward the upland. And as they rounded the last switchback, they began to splash through streams of rainwater. Below them, the streams were diverted into culverts and drains; and Linden wondered obliquely how the Haruchai had contrived to block those waterways when the Sandgorgon Nom had used Glimmermere’s outflow to extinguish the lingering inferno of the Banefire, three and a half thousand years ago. Since then, however, the drains and channels had obviously been re-opened so that accumulating torrents would not flood into the Keep.

As she ascended, Linden seemed to struggle against a current of memories: Covenant’s extravagant bravery when he had quenched the theurgy of the Banefire; her own weakness and Nom’s blunt strength. But then she slogged out of the tunnel into the open rain, and the downpour forced her attention back to the present. It impelled her to pull up her hood and huddle into her cloak; required her to forget who she had been and remember who she was.

There’s no one else who can even make the attempt.

From the shelter of the tunnel, she and her companions turned north and east across the hills toward the promontory of Revelstone. Almost at once, the rain soaked into her cloak. Darkness covered the world, blotting out every horizon: she could only guess where she placed her feet. Nevertheless she sensed that the worst of the storm had passed, that the rainfall was beginning to dwindle as the laden clouds drifted eastward.

Stave and the Manethrall steered her in a northerly curve toward the jut of the plateau, seeking, perhaps, to avoid an unseen hill or some other obstacle. Slowly water seeped through her cloak into her clothes: it dripped from her legs into her boots. By degrees, the chill of night and spring and damp leached the warmth from her skin. More and more, she yearned to draw on the invigorating fire of the Staff. She wanted to banish cold and fear and her own mortality so that she might feel equal to what lay ahead of her.

But if she did so, she would forewarn the Demondim. Knowing that she meant to release Law and Earthpower, Covenant might muster enough of his inexplicable puissance to protect himself and Jeremiah. But the Vile-spawn would recognise their danger. And they would not need prescience to guess her purpose. They would ramify their defences, creating cul-de-sacs and chimeras of lore to baffle her health-sense so that she could not identify their caesure. Or perhaps they would preempt her by unleashing the full evil of the IIIearth Stone-

She knew that bane too well to believe that she could stand against it: not without wild magic. And she trembled to think what might happen to Covenant and her son-or indeed to the hidden Fall of the Demondim-if she were compelled to unveil the force of Covenant’s ring. It’s hard now. And it’s going to get harder. Covenant and Jeremiah might not simply vanish: they might cease to exist in any meaningful form. And the caesure of the Demondim might grow vast enough to devour the whole of Lord’s Keep.

Her own fears as much as the cold and rain filled her with shivering, imminent fever, as she restrained her wish for the Staff’s warmth and consolation. Instead she let her companions lead her to her destination as if she were more blind than Anele, and had far less fortitude.

Immersed in private dreads, she did not sense the presence of the Masters until she neared the rim of Revelstone high above the courtyard and watchtower that guarded the Keep’s gates.

Two of them awaited her. By now, she knew them well enough to recognise Handir and Galt, although she could scarcely discern their shapes in the darkness; certainly could not make out their features. No doubt the other Humbled, Branl and Clyme, had remained with Covenant and Jeremiah.

Galt and the Voice of the Masters stood between her and the cliff-edge of her intent.

She was not surprised to find them in her way. Doubtless they had read her intentions in Stave’s mind. And she was confident that they had informed the ur-Lord- If she had not sunk so far into herself, she might have expected to encounter the Masters earlier.

Perhaps she should have been grateful that only two of Stave’s kinsmen had come to witness her actions; or to oppose them.

“Chosen,” Handir said when Linden and her friends were near enough to hear him easily through the rain, “the Unbeliever requests that you refrain from your intent. He requests it. He does not command it. In this, he was precise. He acknowledges the merit of your purpose. But he conceives that the peril is too great.

“Having been forewarned, he asserts that he will be able to refuse banishment. That is not his concern. Rather he fears what will transpire should you fail. Provoked, the Demondim will draw upon the full might of the IIIearth Stone. From such an assault, only ruin can ensue. The ur-Lord’s design for the salvation of the Land is fragile, easily impeded. If he is assailed by the Demondim, he will be unable to perform what he must.

For that reason and no other, he asks that you turn aside from your intent and await the revelation of his purposes at Furl Falls.”

“And if the Chosen does not fail?” countered Stave before Mahrtiir could retort. “Are the Masters not thereby greatly aided in their service to both Lord’s Keep and the Land?”

The Voice of the Masters did not reply. Instead Galt stated, “Her failure is certain. Our discernment exceeds hers, yet we cannot determine how the Fall of the Demondim is concealed. And if she draws upon Earthpower to enhance her sight, she will be revealed, and the horde will strike against her. Therefore she cannot achieve her aim.

“It is the ur-Lord, the Unbeliever, the rightful wielder of white gold who requests her compliance. How may any refusal be justified?”

Linden stepped closer. She was beyond persuasion: fear and determination and even bafflement had made her as unwilling to compromise as the Masters themselves. Covenant’s indirect appeal and Galt’s reasoning were like the rain: they could fall on her, soak into her clothes, fill her mortal heart with shivering; but they could not deflect her.

Handir had not bowed to her. She gave him no greeting of her own. Ignoring Galt, she asked abruptly. “Did he tell you what this design of his is?”

“No,” Handir answered as though her question had no relevance. “We cannot aid him, and so he did not speak of it. He asked only that we keep the ancient promise of the Haruchai to preserve Revelstone.”