Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

Finally Linden allowed herself to rest. She touched the tip of one finger to the hurtloam, let its sovereign potency spread through her. Then she sank to the dirt and covered her face, leaving Stave and Vernigil to instruct the tree-dwellers in the use of the Land’s largesse.

Later, she recovered enough to wonder why the Masters had permitted the Woodhelvennin to experience Earthpower; to discover health-sense and know what they had been denied.

In addition to the unremitting stench of the pyre, she smelled cooking. When she sat up and looked around, she saw that many of the villagers were busy at fires, using boughs and branches from their homes for fuel. Inspired, perhaps, by the miraculous recovery of their maimed and dying friends and families, they had emerged from their dismay to perform the necessary tasks of staying alive.

When she had observed them for a while, Linden saw that they were being organised by an old couple, the same man and woman whom she had aided at Hyn’s insistence. She had not truly healed them: she had merely postponed their deaths. But they must have shared in the unequivocal efficacy of hurtloam. Although they were fragile and hurt, they walked among their neighbours, still holding hands as they sorted the Woodhelvennin into cooperating teams.

Hyn stood near Linden, watching over her rider. And soon after Linden sat up, Liand came to join her. Squatting comfortably on the shale and grit, he studied her for a moment to assure himself that she was physically unharmed. Then he, too, turned his attention to the villagers.

“I am told,” he remarked quietly, “that the elders who lead them are named Heers. The customs of Woodhelvennin are strange to me.” He gave Linden a wry smile. “I had not known that such folk inhabited the Land. But “by right of years and attainment”- he quoted Handir good-naturedly- “Karnis and his mate, Quilla, are the Heers of First Woodhelven. You did well to redeem their lives, Linden. They command respect among their people which the Masters do not. Vernigil nearly perished in their defence. His companion was slain. Nonetheless here the Masters appear to lack some increment of their stature in Mithil Stonedown. It was Karnis and Quilla rather than Vernigil who truly roused these folk from their bereavement.”

Linden sighed. The tree must have been wonderful. I wish I could have seen it. Maybe it affected them. Maybe they knew in their bones that the Land isn’t as”- she grimaced reflexively- “as superficial as the Masters wanted them to believe.”

The Masters had spent many centuries teaching the villagers to be unprepared for the peril and loss which had befallen them.

Yet now Stave’s kinsmen had recanted? She did not believe it. Decades of caesures had not swayed the Masters: the terrible magicks of the Demondim and the Illearth Stone had not moved them. So why had Vernigil and the Humbled allowed the Woodhelvennin to touch hurtloam?

To some extent, she understood the Harrow. I am able to convey you to your son. The actions of Esmer, Roger, and moksha Jehannum seemed explicable. But the Masters baffled her.

As the villagers prepared food, or searched through the grove’s debris for the supplies that they would need in order to reach Revelstone, the sun sank toward late afternoon, drawing stark shadows across the stained ground. With Liand’s help, Linden climbed wearily to her feet and went to check on the condition of her friends.

She was relieved to see that the Ranyhyn also had been given the benefit of hurtloam. The worst of their injuries were mending with remarkable celerity. Soon they would be able to bear their riders again.

And Mahrtiir and Bhapa had been treated with the gold-flecked sand as well. Although the Cord moved stiffly, and would no doubt feel the ache of his saft ribs for days, he was free of infection; no longer bleeding. Since the Ranyhyn no longer needed care, he and Pahni watched over their Manethrall.

Blessed by hurtloam, Mahrtiir slept deeply, and all of his wounds showed signs of swift healing. With strips of clean wool, the Cords had bandaged his gouged forehead and nose, as well as several deep slashes in his limbs and along his ribs. But first they had washed his eye sockets and cuts, removing dirt and chipped bone. Linden’s health-sense assured her that he would live.

How his blindness would affect him was a different question.

Sighing again, she scanned the area for Anele. At first, she failed to spot him. But then Liand pointed at one of the cooking fires, and Linden saw the old man there amid a busy cluster of Woodhelvennin. He had dismounted beside the flames: apparently he was eager to eat. She felt a moment of trepidation on his behalf until she realised that Stave was with him. Gently but firmly, Stave kept Anele on the sheet of slate which protected him from Kastenessen.

Thank God, Linden thought wanly. Thank God for friends. Without Liand, Stave, and the Ramen-without Anele and the Ranyhyn and the Mahdoubt-she would have been lost a long time ago. And all of her choices seemed to attract new enemies.

She must be doing something right.

Stave seemed to feel her gaze. When he had spoken to the villagers, presumably asking them to guard Anele, he left the fire to approach Linden and Liand.

The pyre was gradually burning itself out. But its grim smoke still tarnished the air, and Linden gauged that it would not sink down to coals until after nightfall.

As Stave drew near, she looked around for the Humbled. They stood like sentinels at separate points around the fringe of the lowland where the tree-dwellers were preparing to spend the night. They were too far away for her to see their faces, but even at this distance she could feel the concentrated harm of their untended wounds. It made them appear as forlorn as outcasts in spite of their unrelenting stoicism.

Stave greeted her with a deep bow which she accepted because she was too weary to refuse it. Still studying the Humbled, she said, “I’ve seen Vernigil. He got a little healing, whether he wanted it or not. But what about them? Will they be all right?”

Stave did not glance at his former comrades. They are Haruchai . None of their hurts are mortal. And we are not prone to the corruption which devours flesh and life. They will not regain their full prowess for some days. But if we are spared a renewed assault-” With a shrug, he fell silent.

If Roger did not return with more Cavewights. If the Sandgorgons marched on Doriendor Corishev or the skurj instead of preferring easier victims, more immediate slaughter. If the Harrow did not appear again, drawing Esmer’s storms with him. If moksha Raver could not gather more kresh .

If Kastenessen did not send his monsters-

Damn it. Linden would have to learn how to wield Covenant’s ring. The Staff of Law was not enough.

Grimly she muttered, “Then I guess we should hope that driving the Harrow away will be enough to satisfy Kastenessen and Roger,” Jehannum and Lord Foul. “At least for the time being.”

Liand winced. “Since the fall of Kevin’s Watch,” he admitted. “we have known incessant peril-and still I am not accustomed to it. I had not considered the likelihood of further battles”- he glanced around him- “or the vulnerability of these Woodhelvennin when we are parted from them.”

Linden rested a hand on his shoulder, as much to steady herself as to reassure him; but she did not reply. Instead she asked Stave. “Can you tell me why they haven’t interfered?” With a nod, she indicated Clyme, Galt, and Branl. “Your people have worked long and hard to keep anyone from knowing about Earthpower. But now dozens of ordinary villagers have felt hurtloam. Temporarily, at least, they’re free of Kevin’s Dirt. And they won’t forget what it feels like. Why didn’t the Masters try to prevent that? What made them change their minds?”