Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

Linden felt the Harrow’s gaze return. “Lady, I have promised my companionship, and the word of any Insequent is holy. Lacking such fidelity, knowledge erodes itself. I have striven too long, and have learned too much, to be made trivial by unfaith. Therefore I am here. No other justification is required.”

He still seemed to be mocking her.

Goaded by what he had done to the Mahdoubt, she said angrily, “And you think that just showing up occasionally makes you honest?” But then she caught herself. “No, forget that. I don’t care how you justify yourself. Tell me something else. I want to understand this.

“Anele has power. Why didn’t the Wraiths refuse him?”

Was it possible that the Wraiths had allowed the Harrow to enter Andelain because he did not serve Despite?

Something that she could not define seemed to snag his notice. It was not birdsong or breeze or the soughing of the Soulsease, although it resembled those sounds. Still she felt his posture shift; felt him probe the twilight behind her. Again he did not answer.

Stave appeared to shrug. “The old man desires no harm. And his power is that of Andelain. Here he was transformed in his mother’s womb, and given birth.”

“Then what about Longwrath?” Linden insisted, aiming her questions at the Harrow in spite of his inattention. “Is he possessed?” She did not think so. If a Raver-or some similar entity-ruled him, she would have sensed its presence. But she wanted to be sure. “Did the Wraiths stop him just because he’s trying to kill me?”

The Insequent faced her. “I would do so in their place.” His tone continued to jeer at her, but his manner implied boredom or distraction. “Have I not said that your might becomes you? Others may desire your death. I do not.

“However, concerning this Giant who craves your blood-”

He paused as though he expected an interruption. But Linden waited, and her companions were silent. After a moment, he resumed.

“His blade holds some interest. It was forged at a time millennia past, when Kasreyn of the Gyre feared the Sandgorgons, having not yet devised their Doom. He hungered for a weapon puissant to slay those feral beasts. Therefore he wrought the flamberge, aided by the croyel . It was fearsome in the hands of a knowing wielder. Yet its purpose ended when the Sandgorgons were bound to their Doom. Deprived of use, its theurgy fades.”

Staring, Linden asked. “Is that what attracted the Wraiths? His sword ?”

“Lady,” replied the Harrow sardonically, “I have said that his blade holds some interest. It does not fascinate me. And the Wraiths are of no consequence. They merely articulate the might of Loric’s krill . Born of Andelain, they nurture its beauty. Far greater beings walk the Hills, among them one of vast arrogance and self-worship.”

She shook her head, trying to rid herself an innominate whisper. Far greater beings-Was he referring to the Dead?

Stubbornly she returned to her essential question. “I know what you want. You tried to force me, but you failed. So now I’m supposed to need your help.” I am able to convey you to your son. “That way, you can “demand recompense”. All right. Let’s get on with it. Isn’t it time for you to offer me a bargain? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“It is,” he replied. “and it is not. For the present, it would be bootless to barter. One comes who will preclude my desires without qualm. I do not relish the indignity of being thwarted. I will await a more congenial opportunity to speak of your son.”

Linden scowled. Hints of sound became more persistent, in spite of her efforts to dismiss them. She could almost-

An instant later, she realised that she was hearing the delicate music of bells or chimes: a soft ringing, at once beautiful and imprecise, as allusive as the scent of an exotic perfume. She nearly gasped as she recognised the tones. She knew them well.

Instinctively dismayed, she wheeled Hyn away from the Harrow.

“Linden?” Liand asked in surprise. Stave and the Humbled looked around, alert for danger. Muttering Giantish oaths, the Swordmainnir did the same.

They could not discern what Linden heard: she knew that. Long ago, this same chiming had filled her with turmoil and confusion-and none of her companions had been aware of it, not Covenant, not the Giants of the Search, not even the Haruchai .

Behind her, the Harrow said with rich sarcasm, “Be at peace, lady. Your concern is needless. No powers will contend in this place.”

Linden ignored him; ignored her friends. At once alarmed and angry, she watched a portion of Andelain’s dusk concatenate and flow as if the soul of the Hills were taking form.

Adorned with the tang and piquancy of tuned bells, a woman stepped out of the twilight and became herself.

She was tall and supple, lovely and lucent; bright with hues that glowed like the light of gems. Her raiment may have been sendaline, or it may have been composed of diamonds and rubies, its glitter and incarnadine woven together by the illimitable magic of dreams. The regal lustre of her hair seemed more precious than jewels: it shone like her ornate cymar and her sovereign eyes; like a sea entranced by the moon. Her chosen flesh spread gleams that caused or resembled her chiming. When she moved, every line and curve was limned in exaltation.

And in her gaze and her mien, an imperious disdain struggled against pleading and sorrow.

Linden knew her. She was Infelice. In some sense which Linden had never understood, she was the leader or spokeswoman or potentate of the Elohim . Among her people, she embodied what they called the Wurd of the Earth,” although in their mellifluous voices “Wurd” might have been “Wyrd” or “Word” or “Weird.”

Her simple presence commanded humility: it urged abasement. In spite of Hyn’s unflinching calm, Linden felt a blind impulse to kneel, abashed, before Infelice.

Her reaction was echoed by Liand and the Ramen. Their faces reflected Infelice’s radiance. Even Mahrtiir was stricken with awe and chagrin. Scowling, Anele refused to turn toward her. And the Giants, who had been acquainted with the Elohim for millennia, scrambled to put away their weapons and bow deeply. Only the Haruchai showed no reaction-the Haruchai and the Harrow.

Thousands of years ago, the uncompromising dedication of Stave’s ancestors had offended the Elohim . More recently, Linden had learned from the Theomach that his people resented the hauteur and power of the Elohim . The Vizard had tried to encourage Jeremiah to imprison them.

In the Elohimfest where Linden had first seen Infelice, her people had betrayed Covenant because they distrusted his possession of white gold. They had believed that Linden should wield wild magic. Even then, they had been certain that Covenant’s efforts to defeat Lord Foul would ultimately fail.

Facing Infelice, Linden feared suddenly that her straits, and the Land’s, demonstrated that the Elohim had been right all along. The Despiser’s repeated return to strength demeaned Covenant’s victories. They might as well have been failures.

Infelice did not walk on the grass. Instead she moved through the air at the height of the Giants. She may have wished to look down on Linden and the Harrow.

Her voice wore a penumbra of bells as she said, “The Insequent speaks sooth, Wildwielder.” Around her, night thickened over the Hills and the Soulsease as if her appearance absorbed the last of the light. “No powers will contend in sacred Andelain. Conscious of his littleness, and embittered, he faults us for arrogance and self-worship. Yet he declines to acknowledge that the quality which he deplores, the certainty that we are equal to all things, preserves his petty machinations as well as his life. Our unconcern spares smaller beings. Were we less than we are, we would have taken umbrage in an earlier age and extinguished the Insequent for their meddlesomeness.”