Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

“How do I know the Theomach’s true name? Where did I hear it’?”

The Insequent had made themselves important to her. She wanted to know their weaknesses.

But the Mahdoubt did not react as Linden expected-or hoped. Leaning forward intently, the woman braced her plump arms on her knees. In a voice that seemed to resonate strangely, although it was as soft as a whisper, she answered, “My lady, you have not inquired of the Mahdoubt’s true name.”

Instinctively Linden pressed her back against the stone at the head of the bed. The Staff of Law lay across her lap: white gold hung against her sternum: one hand gripped her son’s toy while the other held a sheet over her breasts. Yet she felt unexpectedly exposed and vulnerable, as if all of her inadequacies had been laid bare.

Whispering herself, she said, “I’m not convinced that I deserve to know. And I’m sure that I don’t have the right to ask. Your people don’t use titles instead of names by accident. When the Theomach does it, he’s hiding something. That makes me suspicious. But you’re my friend. You didn’t just save my life. You saved my reasons for living. Obviously you know all kinds of things that you’ve decided not to tell me. And I don’t care. I respect whatever you do. Or don’t do.”

The Mahdoubt’s orange eye burned at Linden; but her blue one seemed to plead, asking for sufferance-or for discretion. “Then the Mahdoubt will reveal that her true name is Quern Ehstrel. Thus she grants the power to compel her. And in return she requests both wisdom and restraint.”

No, Linden wanted to protest. Please. Don’t you understand that I’ll use you? I need every weapon I can get. But she had already missed her chance to forestall the older woman’s gift.

Suddenly hoarse with chagrin, she asked. Is that why the Insequent hide their true names? Because they can be compelled?”

If so, she understood their loyalty to each other. The Insequent had too much power over their own people. Without loyalty, none of them would survive.

But the Mahdoubt did not respond directly. Instead she rose to her feet, pushing herself upward with her hands on her knees. Her gaze she turned away, although she was smiling fondly.

“My lady, those who have claimed your friendship draw nigh. The Mahdoubt must now depart. Her time of service to Revelstone is ended, for she awaited only the lady.

“Your raiment has been prepared.” She nodded toward the bathroom. And she has placed a tray before the hearth, for she does not doubt that you are hungry.

If you will permit the Mahdoubt a last word of counsel”- she gave Linden a teasing sidelong glance- “you will clothe yourself ere your companions attend upon you. Oh, assuredly. If you do not, you will disturb their wits.”

Without thinking, Linden surged up from her bed; dropped the Staff as well as her sheet so that she could fling her arms around the Mahdoubt. Her heart was not too hard to be touched. She had spent years starving for some embrace-She did not want power over her friend; yet it had been given to her freely. She knew no other language for her gratitude.

The Mahdoubt returned Linden’s hug briefly. Then she stepped back. “Pssht, my lady.” Her voice was redolent with affection. “The Mahdoubt merely departs. She does not pass away. Will you encounter her again? Be assured of it. It is as certain-”

“-as the rising and setting of the sun,” finished Linden. She wanted to smile, but could not. Even when her other friends arrived, she would be effectively alone without the Mahdoubt. Liand, Stave, Anele, and the Ramen: none of them would understand what had happened to her as the Mahdoubt did. “And by then I’ll probably have even more reasons to be grateful.”

The Mahdoubt bowed over her girth. “Then all is well,” she murmured, “while the sun continues in its course.”

With her head still lowered, she left the bedroom.

Dry-eyed and aching, Linden turned away so that she would not witness the Insequent’s departure. She did not hear the outer door of her rooms open or close. Nevertheless she felt the older woman’s sudden absence as if the Mahdoubt had stepped into a gap between instants and slipped out of time.

Shaken, Linden went into the bathroom. While she washed and dried her face, donned her well-scrubbed clothes, and tucked Jeremiah’s toy deep into one pocket, she willed herself to shed at least a few tears of thanks and sadness. But she could not. Under Melenkurion Skyweir, her capacity for weeping had been burned away.

Linden was eating cheese, grapes, and cold mutton, and washing them down with draughts of Glimmermere’s roborant, when she heard Liand knock at her door. She recognised his touch through the heavy granite by its mingled eagerness and anxiety; and she stood up at once to answer, although the door was not latched. She was eager and anxious herself. Among a host of other things, she did not know how long she had been gone from Revelstone, or how Lord’s Keep had fared against the Demondim; and she needed confirmation that her friends were unharmed.

As she opened the door, Liand burst unceremoniously into the room. He may have assumed that he would be met-and thwarted-by the Mahdoubt. When he caught sight of Linden, however, his open face seemed to catch light. His eyes shone with pleasure, and his black brows soared. At once, he wrapped her in a fierce, brief hug. Then he stepped back, simultaneously abashed and glowing.

“Linden,” he breathed as if his throat were too crowded with emotion for any other words. “Oh, Linden.”

Behind him, Manethrall Mahrtiir swept in, avid as a hawk. Standing before Linden, he gave her a deep Ramen bow, with his arms extended toward her on either side of his head, and his palms outward. His garrote bound his hair, and a garland of fresh amanibhavam hung about his neck. The sharp scent of the flowers emphasised his edged tone as he said, “Ringthane, you are well returned-and well restored. When first you appeared, we feared for you, though the Mahdoubt and our own discernment gave assurance that you required only rest. Our troubled hearts are now made glad.”

Mahrtiir’s accustomed sternness made his greeting seem almost effusive; but Linden had no time to reply. Bhapa and Pahni followed their Manethrall, bowing as well. The older Cord’s eyes were moist and grateful: an unwonted display of emotion for a Raman. But Pahni’s plain joy was more complex. She appeared to feel more than one kind of happiness, as if her delight at Linden’s recovery subsumed a deeper and more private gladness. And Linden detected a secret undercurrent of concern.

Leading Anele by the arm, Stave entered behind the Ramen. The old man suffered Stave’s touch without discomfort: apparently even he understood that the Haruchai was no longer a Master. His moonstone gaze passed over Linden as if he were unaware of her. Instead of acknowledging her, he shook off Stave’s hand, strode over to the tray of food, sat down, and began to eat as if his decades of privation had left him perpetually hungry.

Stave responded to Anele’s behaviour with a delicate shrug. Then he faced Linden and bowed. His flat features and impassive mien revealed nothing: she still could not read him. But his remaining eye held an unfamiliar brightness; and she guessed that her absence had been uniquely harsh for him. No doubt he judged himself severely for failing to protect her. In addition, however, he had sacrificed more in her name than any of her other friends. Liand had turned his back on his home, and the Ramen had left behind their lives among their people; but Stave had been effectively excommunicated by his kinsmen.

All of his wounds were long healed. In the place of his torn and soiled garment, he wore a clean tunic. Only his missing eye betrayed the scale of his losses.