Fatal Revenant

me. “Give me my ring!”

— and even in the time of Berek Lord-Fatherer no ill was known of them.

Ravers did this, she thought disjointedly. Esmer had told her so. Sounds danced around the desperate fingers of stone. Just be wary of me. Remember that I’m dead. She could not escape the rampant blurring discontinuity in her nerves, the disorder of her mind. The Ravers began cunningly to twist the hearts of the sovereign and isolate Viles.

Still words effloresced in the hollow. She does. She must be extinguished. Her power must be extinguished.

With whispers and subtle blandishments, and by slow increments, the Ravers obliquely taught the Viles to loathe their own forms.

Other shapes and images agreed. We will not survive her presence.

Their transformation had begun with mistrust and contempt toward the surviving mind of the One Forest, and toward the Forestals.

Somewhere beyond or beneath perception, Jeremiah replied, “She can’t hear you. They’ve overwhelmed her. She’s lost.”

Linden, find me.

Lost, she echoed. Oh, yes. Nothing in her life had equipped her to disentangle such chaos. If she could have lifted her fingers to the ring hanging from its chain around her neck, she might have drawn it over her head and tossed it aside, abdicating its indelible responsibility. But even that effort surpassed her. Her grasp on the Staff of Law was all that preserved her from tentacles of twilight, and she clung to it with both hands.

Survive her presence-? That made no sense. She posed no threat to such creatures. Even Covenant’s plans would not affect the fate of the Viles. Heeding the Ravers, they had decided their own doom.

Is that cause for regret? multifarious voices countered in visions, pictographs, as ultimate as ebony. It is not. We are not what we were.

And she is a lover of trees. Another Vile-or the same Vile in another avatar. Let her destroy them as she does us. She will reproach herself hereafter. We will be spared.

Spared? Linden saw indignation. Do you name extinction “spared”?

We do. Existence is tedium. Naught signifies. What are we, that we should seek to prolong it?

— a lover of trees. In spite of her fragmentation, the reiteration of that accusation touched something deep within her, some delitescent capacity for passion and choice. She was Linden Avery, a lover of trees in all sooth. Long ago, her health-sense had opened her to the vital loveliness of the woods and blooms and greenswards of Andelain. Their beauty had exalted her when she had taken hold of Vain and Findail with wild magic in order to fashion a new Staff of Law. Now she grasped that Staff in her mortal hands.

Because she was who she was, and did not mean to fail, she opened her mouth so that a shape could emerge into the swirling, interwoven gloom. It formed a yellow moire, oneiric and tenuous.

“Why?”

In response, she smelled surprise. As it bled across her senses, its tang was unmistakable.

She speaks, one or all of the Viles displayed across her vision. And one or several replied, What of it? It is not lore. And again: Ignorance and falsehood guide her kind. Their boredom reeked. It was ever so. They are a pestilence which the Earth endures solely because their lives are brief.

Were the Viles lofty and admirable? Perhaps they had once been. Perhaps they remained so. In the texture and hue of their voices, however, Linden discerned the black urgings of moksha, turiya, and samadhi.

They also do not concern us.

Under other circumstances, she might have been appalled. Now she was not. She had uttered a single word-and the Viles had heard her.

“Why?” she repeated. Her voice was fulvous in the imposed twilight; tinged with brimstone. “Why are you here?

Why do you care? This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

Another scend of surprise stung her nose, her eyes. Tears ran like stridulation down her cheeks.

She does not merely speak. She speaks to us. She desires to be heard.

What of it? they answered themselves in knots and coils of darkness. She holds great powers without lore. No word of hers has meaning here.

Have done with this, several Viles urged at once. Extinguish her. Her life does not profit us.

Others disagreed. She saw their severity as they answered, When power speaks, it is wisdom to give heed.

And still others: When have we ever done otherwise? And others, contemptuously: In what fashion does unexercised power imply wisdom?

Their debate made her stronger. She held the Staff of Law. And they were divided in their desires. They were Viles, on the cusp of learning to despise themselves.

The Elohim considered her the Wildwielder. If they were right, the

Viles should have feared her. She might bring Time and all existence to an end.

“You can hear me,” she pronounced, speaking now in lambent chrysoprase and jacinth rather than saffron blots. “I deserve an answer. If you think that you have the right to destroy me, you owe me an explanation. I haven’t done anything to you. I wouldn’t harm you if I could.

“Why are you here?”

Semiprecious gems winked and hinted among the streaming tendrils. Then they were gone.

We will not heed her. Disdain and scruples crept over her skin. We must.

Before she could insist on a reply, all or several or one of the Viles stated in stark obsidian, Lover of trees, we are here because the others exert hazardous theurgies-and you permit them, holding powers which have no need of theirs. Your folly compels us. The wood that you claim must defy them, yet it does not.

Simultaneously other avatars proclaimed, You strive toward Melenkurion Skyweir and the Power of Command. But the master of white gold has no use for the EarthBlood, and its Power cannot Command wild magic.

You serve a purpose not your own, and have no purpose.

The voices daunted her. Her commingled senses confounded her. The Viles knew too much; and yet they did not know enough to recognise their true peril. Nor could they comprehend her love for her son. They were not mortal.

We will not survive-

The wood that you claim must defy them-

They had answered her. Yet they had not told her what she wanted to know.

Shaping her bafflement into a form of persistence, she said. “No. Not that.” Now the words emerged as emerald and malachite; reified consternation. “I’ve already told you. That doesn’t have anything to do with you.

“Why are you here? In this part of the Land? You live in the Lost Deep.” — in caverns as ornate and majestic as castles. “If you weren’t so far from where you belong, you wouldn’t know or care about us.”

There they devoted their vast power and knowledge to the making of beauty and wonder, and all of their works were filled with loveliness.

Covenant and Jeremiah may have continued calling to her, but she could not feel their voices.

This time, the surprise of the Viles smelled of decay and old rot; mouldering. She has lore. To assume ignorance misleads us.

She does not, they declared scornfully. No mere human knows of our demesne.