Fatal Revenant

Separately and in unison, one at a time, together, they announced, She has been taught. Advised. Therefore she hazards devastation.

Therefore, they concluded, she must be answered.

Therefore, they also decided, she must not.

Their darkness gathered until it threatened to blot out the sun. Are we not Viles? Do we fear her? If they chose to extinguish her, they would be able to do so. The bewilderment of her senses left her vulnerable.

When she fell, they might claim Covenant’s ring-

Yet she saw them pronounce clearly, We do not.

We do not, they agreed. We also have been advised.

Their ire and assent as they answered her smelled as mephitic as a charnel. Lover of trees, they flared like a plunge into a chasm, lightless and unfathomable, we have learned that this remnant of forest despises us. Its master considers us with disdain. We have come to discover the cause of his contumely. We have done naught to merit opprobrium among the woodlands.

Linden might have been horrified; incapable of argument. But Esmer had prepared her for this. That which appears evil need not have been so from the beginning, and need not remain so until the end. Hidden among his betrayals were gifts as precious as friendship.

In shapes as ready as knives, colours as obdurate as travertine, she countered. “That’s a lie. You were “advised”. You said so. By the Ravers. But they didn’t tell you the truth. These trees don’t despise you. They’re too busy grieving. It’s humans they hate. My kind. Not yours.”

“Damnation,” said Covenant in a visceral mutter, a sensation of squirming across Linden’s defenceless skin. “She’s trying to reason with them.”

“I told you.” Jeremiah’s voice made no sound, but she could see it. It was crimson, the precise hue of blood; bright with disgust and grudging admiration. “I remember her. She doesn’t give up.”

“Then we’ll have to do it.” Covenant’s reply itched like swarming ants. “Get ready.”

Linden’s heart yearned for her companions. But she ignored them. She could not reach them now. Surrounded by Viles and implicit death, she had brought herself to a precipice, and could only keep her balance or die.

The makers of the Demondim might resolve their hermetic debate by snuffing out her life. But the risks if she swayed them were no less extreme. Contradicting the seductions of the Ravers, she might irretrievably alter the Land’s history. A cascade of consequences might spread throughout time. If the Viles did not learn to loathe themselves, they would not create the Demondim-who would in turn not create-

With every word, she risked the Arch of Time.

Nevertheless she did not allow herself to hesitate or falter. Here, at least, she believed that calamity was not inevitable. The Law of Time opposed its own disintegration. And the effects of what she did might well prove temporary. Her arguments might do nothing more than delay the gradual corruption of the Viles.

The wood that you claim must defy them, yet it does not.

“Sure,” she continued as though her companions had not spoken, the Forestal is angry. His trees have been slaughtered. But his rage isn’t aimed at you. If you don’t threaten Garroting Deep, he won’t even acknowledge that you’re here.”

Risking everything, uttering sulphur and incarnadine to the gloom, she averred, “You’ve been lied to. You’re being manipulated. The Ravers hate trees. They want you to do the same. Not because they care about you. Not because you’re in any danger. They just want you to start hating.” Extinguishing. “If you do that enough, you’ll end up just like them.”

All contempt turns upon the contemptuous, as it must.

For an immeasurable time, the Viles were silent. Linden felt serpentine darkness coil and twist around her, a nest of snakes and self-dissent; smelled subterranean stone and dust, caves so old and deeply buried that they may have been airless. Get ready. Jeremiah and Covenant had reached a decision, but it lay beyond her discernment. Sensory confusion cut her off from everything except the hollow and the dusk.

Then all or some of the black tendrils repeated, She has lore. And others insisted, It is not lore. It is given knowledge. She has been taught. She merely holds powers which surpass her.

They debated among themselves, gathering vehemence with every assertion. Then the others must concern us.

They do not. They are no mystery to us.

This contention is foolish. The fierceness of the voices blinded Linden. She no longer saw sounds: she felt them. They scraped along her skin like the teeth of a rasp. We cannot accuse her. She has spoken sooth. We also are moved by given knowledge. Have we not heeded those who report that we are despised?

We have. What of that? We seek only comprehension. The intent of her companions is far otherwise. And she consents by withholding her strength. For that reason, we confront her.

Unrestrained anger. For that reason, she must be extinguished.

Stern contradiction. For that reason, she must be understood. Her inaction requires justification.

As one, the voices turned against Linden. Give answer, lover of trees. Why do you permit the purposes of the others, when you have no need of it?

There her determination stumbled. The Viles’ question was more fatal than their ire. In this circumstance, her mind cannot be distinguished from the Arch of Time. How could she explain herself without violating the strictures of history? Her choices could only be justified by events which had not yet occurred; events which would not occur for thousands of years. If she answered, the repercussions would exceed any hope of containment.

Desperately she countered the challenge of the Viles with one of her own.

“You aren’t thinking clearly. You’ve got it backward. Before you question me, you have to question yourselves. Why do you listen to Ravers? Don’t you realise that they’re lying? Beings like you?” — lofty and admirable- “I can’t answer you if you aren’t able to recognise the difference between truth and lies.”

Instantly the twilight grew darker. She saw only stark ebony as if it were the benighted hearts of the Viles. The scents of offal and new blood and repudiation were flung into her face. The ground under her boots thrummed as though the bones of the Last Hills had begun to vibrate. The taste of dead branches and twigs filled her mouth, as bright as brass.

Voices clawed at her skin. She dares to speak so. To us. When they replied to themselves, they spoke in fangs. Yet she speaks sooth. We have heeded that which desires only slaughter.

We seek comprehension.

We seek meaning. Our lives are sterile.

Nonetheless their vehemence no longer threatened Linden. Their conflict did not include her. If she felt savaged by it, that was a side effect of their black theurgy.

They uttered falsehood. What of that? they countered. They also spoke sooth.

Truth may mask lies. It may mislead.

Yet it was indeed sooth. Was it not? Have we not acknowledged that it was?

We have. We were informed without chicane that we are self-absorbed spectres, affectless and wasted. The loveliness we devise and adore is without meaning or purpose. Our lore is great, and our strength dire, yet we are but playthings for ourselves. This is sooth. We have acknowledged it.

Linden groaned. She flinched at the touch of every claw and tooth. There could be no question about it: the Ravers had been at work. She recognised their malignancy, their acid gall.

And have we not also acknowledged that therefore we may be deemed paltry by the wider world? Have we not come to this place seeking truth? Is not our first purpose to determine if the Forestal indeed views us with scorn? Only when that is known can we consider the cause of his scorn.

Yet is not our reasoning flawed, as the lover of trees has proclaimed?