Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

She meant, Why did you do that? I needed you at first. But then I could have fought for myself.

With an effort that made her old muscles quake, the woman straightened her back and raised her head to look at Linden. “My lady,” she said in a voice that quavered, “there is no need for haste. The Mahdoubt’s doom is assured, yet it will not overtake her instantly. You and she will speak together, friend to friend.” Her mismatched eyes searched Linden’s face. “The Mahdoubt prays that you will not prolong the Harrow’s departure on her behalf.”

“Are you sure?” Linden insisted. “There must be something that I can do for you.”

“Assuredly,” replied the old woman: a dying fall of sound. “Permit the Mahdoubt a moment’s respite.” Her chin sagged back down to her breast. “Then she will speak.”

Her words were sparks in the ready tinder of Linden’s outrage.

“In that case-”

Abruptly Linden surged upright to confront the Harrow.

He had recovered his air of undisturbed certitude. The night had cooled his cheeks and brow, and his strong arms rested casually on his chest as if his struggles had already lost their meaning. His eyes probed Linden, daring her to look directly into them; but she refused. If she could, she intended to scald the danger out of them. For the moment, however, she fixed her gaze on the hollow at the base of his throat.

“I think that I understand this,” she said between her teeth. “But I don’t have much experience with you Insequent, and I want to be sure that I’ve got it straight.

“I’m safe from you now? Is that right?’

Stave had joined her beside the Mahdoubt. He looked at her intently.

He may have wished to warn her; to explain something. But what he saw in her silenced him.

The Humbled remained poised, apparently passionless, behind the Harrow. They paid no attention to their hurts.

“Indeed.” The Harrow’s defeat left a caustic edge in his voice. “Until you are minded to grant my desires, I will not attempt to wrest them from you.”

“And your desires are-?” Linden demanded. “I want to hear you say it again.”

“What I seek, lady,” he answered without hesitation. “is to possess your instruments of power.” Then he shrugged. “What I will have, however, is your companionship.”

Linden glared at his throat as though she meant to rip it open. “What in God’s name makes you think that I’m going to let you follow me around?”

The Harrow laughed mordantly. “Apart from the mere detail that you cannot prevent me? There is a service which I am able to perform for you, and which you will not obtain from any other living being.”

Oh really? “In that case,” she repeated, “there’s something that you should know about me.”

Again he laughed. “Elucidate, lady. If there can be aught that I do not know of you, I will-”

Softly, almost whispering, Linden pronounced. “The Mahdoubt is my friend.”

As swift as anger, she summoned a howl of power from her Staff and hurled it straight into the Harrow’s eyes.

Her vehemence was hot enough to resemble the fire which had fused her heart. It should have burned its way deep into his brain. If it had left him blind and useless, as doomed as the Mahdoubt, she would not have permitted herself one small stumble of regret. This was what she had become, and she did not mean to step back from herself.

But she was not as quick as the Harrow. Before her blast struck him, he slapped a hand over his eyes. Her fire splashed away like water.

For a long moment, she poured Earthpower at him, dispersing the dark; trying to overwhelm his defences. However, he was proof against her: he appeared to withstand her assault easily, almost negligently. When she had tested him until she was sure that she could not daunt or damage him with the Staff alone, she released her flame and let night wash back around the campfire.

As the Harrow lowered his hand to gaze at her, unconcerned, she said harshly, “You’re tough,” loathing the tremor in her voice. “I’ll give you that. But don’t think for a second that I can’t hurt you. If you know as much about me as you claim, you know that I can do a hell of a lot more than this.”

Masked by his beard, the Harrow’s mouth twisted. “As your ‘friend’ has said, perchance it is so. Perchance it is not. For your part, know that my oath does not preclude me from causing you such pain that you will regret your unseemly defiance.”

Before she could retort, he added, “I bid you farewell. Rail against me at your pleasure. I will claim your companionship when you attempt aught which interests me.”

Brusquely he bowed. Then he turned and strode away in the direction of Revelstone. The Humbled did not step aside for him. Nevertheless he passed through them, leaving them untouched-and visibly startled in spite of their stoicism. Then he seemed to evaporate into the darkness. In an instant, he was gone.

The Humbled stared after him. Their stances suggested that they expected to be assailed. After a moment, however, they appeared to accept his disappearance. Shrugging, they dismissed him and approached the campfire.

The Mahdoubt made a vague plucking gesture. When Linden saw it, she moved at once to the woman’s side and extended her arm. The Mahdoubt grasped it feebly, tried to heave herself to her feet. At first, she failed: her strength had left her. But then Stave added his support, and she was able to rise.

Clinging to both Linden and the former Master, the Mahdoubt panted thinly, “My lady. In one matter. You have erred.” She took a moment to calm her breathing, then said, “Your challenge was unseemly. He has given his oath. Assuredly so. And the choice to demand it of him was freely made. It is through no act of his that the Mahdoubt must now pass away.”

“I don’t care.” Linden hunched close to the woman, trying vainly to transmit some her own health into the Mahdoubt’s sudden frailty. “I care about you.”

And you do not forgive,” Stave put in sternly. His tone held a hint of reproach. “This you have demonstrated. You are altered, Chosen and Sun-Sage. The woman who accompanied the ur-Lord Thomas Covenant to the redemption of the Land would not have struck thus.”

“What do you want from me?” Linden countered. She could not bear sorrow or shame: they would unmake her. Under Melenkurion Skyweir, such emotions had been clad in granite. “Am I supposed to call him back and apologise ? God damn it, Stave, she’s going to die , and she did it for me.” More softly, she repeated. “She did it for me.”

Stave held Linden’s glare without blinking; but the Mahdoubt intervened. “Oh, assuredly,” she said with more firmness. “Of a certainty, the Mahdoubt will perish. But first she will fall into madness.”

Swallowing anger, Linden asked, “Does that have to happen? Isn’t there something we can do about it?”

The woman sighed. “It is the way of the Insequent, inherent in us. It is required of the Mahdoubt by birth rather than by choice or scruple. The Insequent exert no demands upon each other, for the cost of such conflict would be extinction. Some centuries past, the Vizard sought to thwart the Harrow’s desires, for he deemed them contrary to his own purpose. Thus was the Vizard lost to use and name and life. The outcome of what the Mahdoubt has done will not be otherwise.”

The eyes of the Humbled widened momentarily, and Stave cocked an eyebrow; but Linden paid no attention to them.

“Ere that end, however,” the Mahdoubt continued, “there is much that must be said.” She glanced at Stave. “You also must speak, Haruchai . The Mahdoubt falters, for her years come upon her swiftly. She is too weary to relate the tale of your people. Yet that tale must be told.”