Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

Repeatedly tracing the same circuit from verge to verge of the cookfire’s light, with the runed black wood of the Staff gripped in her healed hand, she tried to solve the conundrum of the Mahdoubt’s presence.

The older woman had suggested that sleep might bring comprehension or recall. Comprehension was beyond Linden; as unattainable as sleep. But recall was not. For long years, she had sustained herself with remembrance. Pacing back and forth within the boundaries of the fire’s frail illumination, she tried to recollect and examine everything that the Mahdoubt had said since Linden had come upon her beside the river.

Unfortunately her battle under Melenkurion Skyweir, and her brutal struggle out of the mountain, had left her so frayed and fraught that she could remember only hazy fragments of what had been said and done before the Forestal’s arrival.

— answer none of the lady’s sorrows. The Mahdoubt had tried to explain something. Time has been made fragile. It must not be challenged further. But in Linden’s mind the words had become a blur of earthquake and cruelty and desperate bereavement.

Stymied by her earlier weakness, she had to begin with food and forbearance and Gallows Howe; with runes and assurances.

Must it transpire that beauty and truth shall pass utterly when we are gone?

If I can find an answer, I will.

After that, the Staff of Law had been restored to her, written with knowledge and power. It had made her stronger. The Howe itself had made her stronger. Her memories were as distinct as keening.

This blackness is lamentable-

But nothing in her encounter with Caerroil Wildwood relieved her own lament.

Again and again, however, the Mahdoubt had avowed that her wishes for Linden were kindly. Apart from her obscure answers to Linden’s questions, the Mahdoubt had treated Linden with untainted gentleness and consideration.

And when Linden had tried to thank her, the Mahdoubt had replied, Gratitude is always welcome-The Mahdoubt has lived beyond her time, and now finds gladness only in service. Aye, and in such gratitude as you are able to provide.

Gratitude.

Linden could have gone on, remembering word for word. But something stopped her there: a nagging sensation in the back of her mind. Earlier, days ago, or millennia from now, the Mahdoubt had spoken of gratitude. Not when the woman had accosted Linden immediately before Roger’s arrival in Revelstone with Jeremiah and the croyel : not when she had warned Linden to Be cautious of love. Before that. Before Linden’s confrontation with the Masters. The day before. In her rooms. When she and the Mahdoubt had first met.

Linden’s heart quickened its beat.

Then also the older woman had offered food and urged rest. She had explained that she served Lord’s Keep, not the

Masters. And she had asked-

Linden’s strides became more urgent as she searched her memories.

She had asked, Does the wonder of my gown please you? Are you gladdened to behold it? Every scrap and patch was given to the Mahdoubt in gratitude and woven together in love.

My gown. That was the only occasion when Linden had heard the Insequent refer to herself in the first person.

Full of other concerns, Linden had missed her opportunity to learn more about the patchwork motley of the Mahdoubt’s garb. But Liand had supplied what Linden lacked, as he had done so often.

That it is woven in love cannot be mistaken. If I may say so without offense, however, the gratitude is less plain to me.

In response, the Mahdoubt had chided him playfully. Matters of apparel are the province of women, beyond your blandishment. And then she had said-

Oh, God. Linden was so surprised that she stumbled. When she had recovered her balance, she stood still and braced herself on the Staff while she remembered.

The Mahdoubt had said, The lady grasps the presence of gratitude. And if she does not, yet she will. It is as certain as the rising and setting of the sun.

Gratitude. In the gown, my gown: in the disconcerting unsuitability of the parti-coloured scraps and tatters which had been stitched together to form the garment. Other people in other times had given thanks to the Mahdoubt-or had earned her aid-by adding pieces of cloth to her raiment.

The lady is in possession of all that she requires.

The Mahdoubt had already given Linden an answer.

— such gratitude as you are able to provide.

Shaken, Linden entered a state of dissociation that resembled Jeremiah’s; a condition in which ordinary explicable logic no longer applied. She leapt to demented assumptions and did not question them. Suddenly the only problem which held any significance for her was that she had no cloth.

For that matter, she had neither a needle nor thread. But those lacks did not daunt her. They hardly slowed her steps as she hurried to stand across the campfire from the Mahdoubt.

Hidden within her cloak, the woman still squatted motionless. She did not react to Linden’s presence. If she felt the blaze of confusion and hope in Linden’s gaze, she gave no sign.

Linden opened her mouth to blurt out the first words that occurred to her. But they would have been too demanding, and she swallowed them unuttered. If she could, she wanted to match the Mahdoubt’s courtesy. Intuitively she believed that politeness was essential to the older woman’s ethos.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. Then she began softly, “I don’t know how to address you. “The Mahdoubt” seems too impersonal. It’s like calling you “the stone” or “the tree”. But I haven’t earned the right to know your name,” her true name. “And you don’t use mine. You call me “lady” or “the lady” to show your respect.

“Would it be all right if I called you “my friend”?”

Slowly the Mahdoubt lifted her head. With her hands, she pulled back the hood of her cloak. The jarring and comfortable contradiction of her eyes regarded Linden warmly.

“The Mahdoubt,” she said, smiling, “would name it an honour to be considered the lady’s friend.”

“Thank you.” Linden bowed, trying to honour the older woman in return. “I appreciate that.

“My friend, I have a request.”

Still smiling, the woman waited for Linden to continue.

Linden did not hesitate. The pressure building within her did not permit it. As if she were sure of herself, she said, “You once asked if looking at your gown made me glad. I didn’t understand. I still don’t. All I know is that it has something to do with the requirements of your knowledge. Your beliefs. But I would be glad to look at it again now. I’ll be grateful for a second chance.”

For an instant, a burst of light appeared in the Mahdoubt’s eyes; a brief reflection from the flames, perhaps, or an intensification of her unpredictable solidity and evanescence. Then she climbed slowly to her feet, unbending one joint at a time: an old woman grown frail, too plump for her strength, and unable to stand without effort. While she laboured upright, however, she seemed to blush with pleasure.

Facing Linden over the heat of her cookfire, she shrugged off her cloak so that Linden could behold the full ugliness of her piecemeal gown.

It had been made haphazardly, with a startling lack of concern for harmonious colours, similar fabrics, or even careful stitches. Some scraps were the size of Linden’s hand, or of both hands: others, as long and narrow as her arm. Some were brilliant greens and purples, as bright as when they were newly dyed. Others had the duller hues of ochre and dun, and showed long years of wear. The threads sewing the patches together varied from hair-fine silk to crude leather thongs.