Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

For a moment, he seemed unaware of her. His moonstone gaze wandered the southward expanse of the Hills, and he stood stiffly erect as if he were awaiting the acknowledgment of an august host. But then a subtle alteration came over him. As he turned toward Linden, his posture loosened. Studying her, he seemed to peer outward through veils of madness.

“Ah, Linden,” he sighed. His voice was his own; but it was also Hollian’s, light and loving, and as poignant as lamentation. “You should not have come. The hazard is too great. Darkness consumes you. The Despiser has planned long and cunningly for your presence, and his snares are many.”

Anele paused, swallowing grief. He blinked at tears which were not his. Then he continued to speak words bestowed by his long-dead mother.

“Yet the sight of you gladdens me. I pray that you will be able to bear the burden of so many needs. There is more in Andelain-and among the Dead-and in your heart-than Lord Foul can conceive.”

The old man started to withdraw. But before Linden could cry out to him-or to Hollian-he faced her again. “Be kind to my beloved son,” he said, quietly imploring. “His vision of his parents is too lofty. He torments himself for faults which are not his. When your deeds have come to doom, as they must, remember that he is the hope of the Land.

“This, also, the Despiser and all who serve him cannot imagine.”

Abruptly Anele turned to the south. While Linden floundered in silence, shaken and unsure, he strode away from her. After a moment, he began to run deeper into Andelain as if he could hear Hollian and Sunder calling for him.

“Linden?” Liand asked. Apparently Anele’s voice and her distress had pierced his jubilant astonishment. “Linden? Shall I follow after him? Will he be lost?”

Liand’s concern seemed to rouse the Ramen. Mahrtiir rose to his feet: his wrapped head moved like a hawk’s as he scrutinised his companions. At once, Bhapa and Pahni stood. The young Cord’s mien promised that she would accompany Liand if he pursued Anele.

Linden’s eyes burned, but they were dry. “No.” The stone of her purpose was too hard for weeping. “Let him go. He’s safe here.” When your deeds have come to doom- “If we don’t catch up with him, he’ll wander back to us eventually.”- as they must- “In the meantime, maybe he’ll find a little peace.”

— remember that he is the hope of the Land.

After an instant of hesitation, Liand nodded. The angle of his raven eyebrows showed that he was more troubled on Linden’s behalf than

Anele’s. But she had nothing more to say to him. She was not prepared to explain why she intended to ignore Hollian’s warning.

While Anele ran, Branl and Galt emerged from the trees near the boundary of Andelain. Like Clyme, they seemed confident that they had passed beyond danger. Without obvious hurry, they trotted lightly into crystalline cleanliness. Soon they joined Clyme amid the wildflowers and the casual hum of feeding bees.

Rime Coldspray had gathered her Swordmainnir around her. For a few moments, they spoke together in low voices. Then the Ironhand turned to address the Humbled.

We are Giants,” she said formally. “and have not found pleasure in the unwelcome of the Masters. But the time has come to set aside such affronts. In the name of my comrades, I thank you for your many labours. You are the Humbled, Masters of the Land. But you are also Haruchai , and have done much to ensure our lives. I hope that you will honour us by accepting our gratitude.”

The Humbled faced her impassively. In a flat tone, Branl said. “There is no need for gratitude, Rime Coldspray, Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. The unwelcome of which you speak was not meant as unfriendship. We were concerned only that your open hearts and tales might undermine our service to the Land. Now you have accomplished that which we deemed impossible. With the aid of this unlikely Stonedownor-he indicated Liand- “you have wrested the lives of Linden Avery’s company from the jaws of the skurj . Together we acknowledge your deeds. When the time comes to speak of you before the Masters assembled in Revelstone, we will speak with one voice, and will be heeded.”

Sure, Linden thought dourly. Of course you will. The Humbled had as much authority among their people as Handir. But Branl had not revealed what he would say to the Masters.

She intended to pursue the question with Stave later, when she had a chance to talk to him alone.

Nonetheless Coldspray inclined her head as if Branl had satisfied her. Only her frown and an oblique timbre of anger in her voice suggested otherwise as she continued, “Yet our gratitude remains. Therefore we ask your counsel. We are Giants. We must grieve for those whom we have lost. For that reason, we require a caamora . We wish to gather wood from Salva Gildenbourne, that we may express our sorrow in fire. Will your Mastery gainsay us? Will our flames offend the spirit of Andelain?”

If the Humbled felt any reluctance, they did not reveal it. Instead Clyme replied, “Ironhand, we have no heart for sorrow. Yet here we would not oppose any need or desire of the Swordmainnir. And Andelain is the soul and essence of the Land. As the Land has known grief beyond description, so the Hills themselves are familiar with mourning and loss. Your flames cannot give offense where their meaning is shared and honoured.”

“That is well,” said Coldspray gruffly. “Accept our thanks.”

With a gesture, she sent Cabledarm and Latebirth back down the slope toward the darkening forest.

Linden still did not know the name of the Giant who had died on the tor.

Doubtless Cabledarm and Latebirth were safe enough. If they sensed the skurj , or any other foes, they could return to Andelain quickly. While Mahrtiir instructed Bhapa and Pahni to forage for treasure-berries, Linden drew Earthpower from her Staff again; but she did not do so to protect the Giants. Rather she turned her attention and the Staff’s flame, as yellow and lively as buttercups, to healing.

The Swordmainnir needed better care than she had given them earlier. Now she treated their many wounds with more diligence. Walking slowly among the women, she tended severed nerves and blood vessels, ripped flesh and muscles. Gently she cauterised bleeding, burned away sepsis, repaired bone. The Giants were hardy: their wellsprings of health ran deep. Nevertheless the virulence of the poisons left by the fangs and blood of the monsters shocked her. Already every wound oozed with infection. The most severe hurts required a delicate balance of power and precision.

Kindwind’s condition was the worst. Septicemia had polluted her bloodstream, and her long exertions had spread its taint throughout her body. Linden could not cleanse away the infection until she had searched the marrow of Kindwind’s bones with percipience and strict fire.

By comparison, repairing the structure of Bluntfist’s cheek was a simple task, easily completed. The burns suffered by Liand, the Ramen, and Stave responded well to their given healing.

Linden expected her own weariness to hamper her efforts, but it did not. Andelain’s air was a roborant, restoring her reserves. It dimmed the effects of Kevin’s Dirt. Every glance around the ineffable Hills strengthened her. And the grass under her boots sent a caress of warmth and generosity along her nerves. While she worked, she found that she was capable of more than she had imagined.

The krill was in Andelain. Esmer had said so. The Hills themselves might make her strong enough to fulfil her intentions.

As she tended the Swordmainnir, their wonder and thankfulness gathered palpably around her. The tales of their people had not prepared them for what could be accomplished with health-sense and Earthpower. Even the First and Pitchwife had never seen her wield the Staff as she used it here.