Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

Loric’s weapon was a two-edged dagger almost as long as a short sword. At the intersection of its blade, its straight guards, and its ribbed hilt, it had been forged around a clear gem, mystic and immaculate: the focal point of its power. There the gem blazed with condensed argent like contained wild magic, at once potent and controlled; ready for any use.

It remained exactly as Linden remembered it: a cynosure of vindication and loss deeply embedded in the black, blasted stump of a ruined tree which had once been Caer-Caveral and Hile Troy.

Goaded by memories and exigency, a purpose as desperate as the last Forestal’s, she urged Hyn into a swift canter. Graceful as water, Hyn carried Linden through the acknowledgment of the Wraiths toward the bottom of the vale; toward dead wood and shining and culmination.

Behind her, Infelice called urgently, “It was for this! To avert this present moment. ” Dread and supplication squirmed through her voice. “Broken or triumphant in the past, you would not have returned to the Land. You would not now hold white gold and the Staff of Law. Nor would you approach Loric’s krill in Andelain accompanied by Wraiths. You would not be driven by mistaken love to bring about the end of all things!”

Linden wanted to laugh like the Harrow. As she swept closer to her destination, she answered in derision. “Does it bother you at all that you’re completely insane?”

Then Hyn led Linden’s companions into the expanding circle of the Wraiths. There Linden dismounted. With the opulent grass of the Hills beneath her sodden boots and stained pants, she hugged the Staff of Law to her chest. It was here : Loric’s krill was here. — that which will enable her to bear her strengths- And Covenant’s ring hung under her shirt. Jeremiah’s racecar rested in her pocket. She had gained everything that she required-except the Dead.

The krill had been driven deeply into the wood: she was not sure that she could remove it. And she remembered its heat. She was not Covenant, the rightful white gold wielder, numb with leprosy: if she touched the dagger with her bare skin, it might burn her. Instead she stood before it as though it were the altar of Caer-Caveral’s sacrifice.

Liand and the rest of her friends arrived after her. Only Stave and the Humbled dropped to the ground: the other riders remained aback their Ranyhyn as if they were caught in dreams, bespelled by the Wraiths. Even the Giants appeared to wander entranced, lost in mysteries. Coldspray and perhaps Grueburn seemed to struggle against their amazement, but their comrades gazed upon the circling of the Wraiths and did not awaken.

Like Liand, Anele, and the Ramen, the Harrow remained mounted at a distance from Linden and the krill . The bottomless holes of his eyes considered the fiery gem hungrily.

Floating, Infelice drifted to the ground near Linden. The intensity of the krill dimmed her raiment, robbed her of lustre. She sounded almost human-almost petulant-as she said, “I have heard you, Wildwielder. Have you heard me? We stand now at the last crisis of the Earth. If you do not turn aside, you will be broken indeed. Your remorse will surpass your strength to bear it.”

Linden did not answer. Instead she spoke softly to the waiting night.

“I’m here. It’s time. You know why I’ve come. You know what I have to do.” When Covenant had entered Andelain without her, his Dead had given him gifts to aid his efforts to redeem the Land. Linden, find me. I can’t help you unless you find me. “The Harrow says that this is Banas Nimoram , and you called me here. I can’t save anything”- not Jeremiah, not the Land, not even herself- “without you.”

Around her and the Wraiths, the darkness seemed to hold its breath. The Harrow murmured quiet invocations which meant nothing to her. Infelice fretted as if she were inconsolable. The Swordmainnir shifted restlessly in their trance, and Anele jerked his head from side to side, watchful and frightened, like a man being hunted. The stars grew still in their stately allemande.

Linden could not know that she would be heeded. Yet she felt no doubt. In dreams and through Anele, Covenant had reached out to her across the boundaries of life and death. She no longer considered it possible that she might be mistaken.

Then the night gave a low sigh; and beyond the Wraiths two figures came forward from the rim of the vale. They were portrayed in silver as though they were made of moonlight: they shone with phosphorescence like a gentler manifestation of the krill ’s argent blaze. But they were at once more definite than moonshine and less acute than the blade’s echo of wild magic. Although they walked with formal steps, they appeared to drift like wisps over the grass, as evanescent as dreaming, and as allusive.

Linden knew them. They were Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand, Anele’s parents.

When they had passed between the reverent flames, they stopped partway down the slope. They seemed strangely commanding and penitent, and their moonstone eyes gleamed with austere compassion. Linden’s heart surged at the sight of them; but they did not glance in her direction or speak. Instead they gazed at Anele as if they were full of suppressed weeping.

He must have been aware of them. With his hands, he covered his face. But then he seemed to find that his fingers and palms were too thin, too frail, to protect him. Flinging his arms around his head, he ducked low over Hrama’s neck like a child who hoped to hide from chastisement.

Now Linden saw tears in Hollian’s eyes and sorrow in Sunder’s. Yet they beckoned to their son, summoning him toward them with the certainty of monarchs. In life, their courage and love and Earthpower had earned them the stature of Lords.

Anele did not react to their mute call. But Hrama responded. As if both he and his rider belonged in such company, the Ranyhyn carried Anele toward his Dead.

Sunder and then Hollian bowed to Hrama, silent and grave. Gesturing, they invited the Ranyhyn to walk between them. Solemn as a cortege, they turned to escort Hrama and Anele away from Loric’s krill ; out of the vale. Linden felt her heart try to break-try and fail-while Sunder and Hollian departed with their son. But they said nothing; and so she could not. A cry of abandonment sounded within her for a moment. Then it relapsed to stone.

As Sunder, Hollian, and their son passed away among the flames, Linden lost sight of them. In their place, another ghost strode down the slope.

She knew him as well, grieved for him as much.

He was Grimmand Honninscrave, the Master of Starfare’s Gem. In measureless agony, he had contained samadhi Sheol so that the Sandgorgon Nom could kill him in order to rend the Raver. Thirty-five centuries later, anguish still gripped his face. As he moved, he seemed to shed droplets of moonlight like blood.

He also stopped midway between the Wraiths and the dead stump of Caer-Caveral’s sacrifice. He also did not speak. And he did not spare a glance for Linden, in spite of their friendship. His ancient pain conveyed the impression that he feared her as he summoned the Swordmainnir.

They obeyed without hesitation, sheathing their weapons as they strode toward the Dead Giant. Around Honninscrave’s moonstruck figure, they stood for a moment in silence and awe. Then they accompanied him away from Linden, leaving her to face her choices without their encouragement, their strength, their laughter. Together they followed Honninscrave past the Wraiths until he and they had faded into the night.

Of Linden’s friends, only Stave, Liand, and the Ramen remained.

“Do you behold this, Wildwielder?” Infelice hissed with the urgency of a serpent. “Do you see? These are your Dead. Their love for you is not forgotten. Yet they shun you. They seek to spare their descendants the peril of your intent. If you will not heed me , heed them .”