Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

“That, my lord,” the Theomach replied, unruffled, “I may not bespeak openly. The lore which I offer is for you alone.”

Berek returned an unconvinced snort. But he did not press the Theomach. Instead he looked at Linden. His eyes seemed to probe her soul as he said, “My lady Linden, you have performed such service here that no honour or guerdon can suffice to repay it. Yet the task entrusted to me exceeds these wounded. It requires also the defeat of the Queen’s foes. Ultimately it demands the nurturance of the Land. Therefore I must remain wary while my heart swells with thankfulness.

“Will you claim my sufferance on behalf of your companions?”

Abruptly wary herself, and abashed in Berek’s presence, Linden rose to her feet. Hugging the Staff to her chest, she met his gaze, although his penetration daunted her.

“Jeremiah is my son,” she began awkwardly. “Covenant is-”

For a moment, she faltered. She did not need the Theomach’s warnings to convince her that any reply might prove dangerous. Like Joan, if in her own way, she bore the burden of too much time. The wrong word might ripple outward for millennia.

But Covenant, Jeremiah, the Theomach, and Berek Halfhand were all studying her. With an effort, she forced herself to continue. “Where I come from,” she said carefully, “Covenant is a great hero. There are things about both of them that I don’t understand. But they’re with me, and I need them.”

Then she squared her shoulders. “I made the decision to come here. If it was a mistake, it’s my doing, not theirs.” Unsteadily she finished. “We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

Berek scrutinised her for a moment longer. Then he nodded decisively. “My lady, we will speak with less constraint in my tent, you and your companions”- he glanced at the shrouded figure of the Insequent- “not excluding the Theomach.

“Hand DameIon?”

Berek’s son stepped forward. “My lord?” He was flushed with the effects of lnbull’s blow; but Linden saw that he had not been seriously hurt. Not like Jeremiah-The breastplate of his cuirass had absorbed much of the impact.

“Has Warhaft Inbull dared to harm one of my Hands?” asked Berek. His self-command did not waver. Nonetheless Linden heard the throb of cold fury in the background of his voice.

“He has dared, my lord,” Damelon replied stiffly, “but he has not succeeded. His affront does not merit your concern.”

Berek flashed his son a quick glance of concern and approbation. However, his tone did not relent. “I command here. The affront is mine to gauge, and to repay.” Then he told Damelon. “While I do so, escort the lady Linden and her companions to my tent. See that they are provided with warmth and viands, and with water for the cleansing of wounds. If their hurts require any healing that we may supply, command it in my name. I will attend upon them shortly.”

Hand Damelon saluted again. “At once, my lord.” Like his father, he kept his anger to himself.

Turning to Linden, he gestured toward the opening behind Inbull. “My lady, will you accompany me?”

“We will, Hand,” the Theomach answered for her. His manner suggested a smile of satisfaction. “Accepting your courtesy, we hope to honour you in return.”

Linden let the Insequent take charge of the situation. He understood its implications better than she did. But she did not allow him to hurry her. Stooping to Jeremiah, she asked. “Can you stand, honey? Are you able to walk?”

“Hell, Linden,” Covenant growled under his breath. “Of course he can. This is important.”

“He’s right, Mom.” Jeremiah did not look at her. “It already hurts less.” With a teenager’s graceless ease, he surged to his feet. “I’ll be fine.”

Linden nodded, too baffled to question him further. According to Covenant, Berek’s touch would banish both of them. Yet they remained. She felt that she had been given hints or portents, glimpses of revelation, which she could not interpret. What did Covenant dread, if Berek’s inchoate strength posed no threat? Why had she been forbidden to hug or care for her son?

Wearily she trailed behind Jeremiah as he followed Covenant, the Theomach, and Damelon out of the tent; away from needs that she could comprehend toward an unfathomable encounter with the dangers of time.

While she and her companions passed between Berek and Inbull, the Warhaft glared hatred at them. If he feared Berek’s wrath, he did not show it. Either he was too stupid to recognise his own peril, or he knew Berek better than she did.

As she had earlier, Linden walked along aisles of warriors who had gathered to catch sight of the strangers. They all had their own wounds, their own ailments, their own yearning for restoration. But they kept their wonder and pain to themselves while she and her companions were led and warded by Damelon.

Berek’s tent was a frayed and soiled stretch of canvas supported by a single central pole. When Damelon ushered his charges inward, Linden found herself in a space large enough to hold twenty or thirty warriors standing.

In every respect, Berek’s quarters were as rudimentary as the tents of the wounded. His pallet and blankets resembled the bedding of the fallen. Apart from a low table on which rested an old longsword in a plain scabbard and a wooden chest that-she could only guess-might hold maps, the tent had no other furnishings. Two small oil lamps hanging from the tent pole cast a dim yellow illumination that seemed to shed no light, reveal nothing: the whole space was full of uncertainty like implied shadows. And scraps of ice still glazed the dirt floor. Her breath plumed as she looked around. She did not know how long she had laboured at healing; but midnight had surely passed, and winter had sunk its teeth into every vulnerable instance of warmth.

After ushering Berek’s guests into the tent, Damelon ducked past the flaps to call for braziers, honeyed wine, cured meat, dried fruit. When he returned, he said, “My lady, I crave your pardon. Our rude comforts are no true measure of our gratitude. The day will come when we stand again within the walls of Doriendor Corishev. Mayhap then you will permit us to celebrate your benisons in a more seemly manner.”

He may have been taught to speak so, with confidence and conviction, by his father’s knowledge of despair.

Linden sighed. “Don’t worry about it, please.” Barred from using the Staff, she had no defence against the cold except her cloak. And she was so tired-Already she had begun to shiver again. “We can only imagine what you’ve suffered. If you can give us heat and food, we’ll be all right.”

‘”All right, — Covenant muttered sourly. “Sure. Why not?”

The Theomach turned to him as if in warning; but Damelon ignored both of them. Instead he studied Linden like a man who wanted to imprint her on his thoughts. “You are gracious, my lady. I will not question you. That is my lord Berek’s task. But warmth and viands you will have.” More softly, he said. “Soon you will be able to rest.”

Perhaps his own percipience had begun to awaken.

Moments later, the tent flaps were pushed aside, and a pair of warriors entered, bearing a blackened metal brazier between them. It was full of coals and fire, so hot that it had to be carried on the shafts of spears. More warriors followed until the tent held four flaming pans. Then Berek’s people brought ironwood stands to support the braziers. By the time the men and women left, heat began to bless the air.

Then other warriors brought hard clay urns of warmed wine, its acidulous aroma softened with honey. A tray laden with meat and fruit arrived. Linden, Covenant, and Jeremiah were given flagons: wine was poured for them. But the Theomach refused with a bow. Nor did he touch the food. Apparently he lived on some form of nourishment entirely his own.