Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

For a long moment, Linden held the Staff in the crook of her arm and simply cupped her flagon with both hands, savouring its heat and its sweet scent. Then she sipped gently. She had felt frozen for so long, in spite of her own efforts and Covenant’s to fend off the cold. If he and Jeremiah had not been somehow more than human, they would have suffered from frostbite.

Questions swirled around her, but she was too tired to sift them into any kind of order. What did the Theomach want with Berek? Why had Covenant lied about his vulnerability to Berek? How had Berek failed to discern lnbull’s betrayal? And how could she and her companions hope to reach Melenkurion Skyweir? She had seen for herself that Berek would be able to offer them nothing except starving horses, tattered blankets, and a little food.

How much power did Jeremiah have? And how in God’s name could Linden try to learn the truth-any truth-when she had to guard against the possibility that some action or inaction of hers might threaten the integrity of the Arch?

Ripples-As far as she knew, she had not altered the essential nature of Berek’s struggle, or the outcome of his war. Not yet. Otherwise the Theomach would have intervened. But even her trivial knowledge of the Land’s history could be fatal. With a word, she might affect Berek’s actions, or Damelon’s, altering the flow of cause and effect for generations.

The Theomach was right: she had to let him speak for her as much as she could-and to pray that Covenant would do the same in spite of his resentment.

She was not conscious of hunger; but she forced herself to chew a little tough meat and dried fruit, washing them down with honey and acid. She had to be able to think clearly, and could not imagine doing so.

Lost in questions, she ignored Damelon’s departure. But then he returned, bearing a bowl of hot water and some relatively clean scraps of cloth. These he offered to Linden, suggesting that she tend to Jeremiah’s injury.

“I can’t,” she muttered before she could catch herself. “He doesn’t want me to touch him.”

The Hand gave her a perplexed frown. While he hesitated, however, the Theomach stepped forward. “Nonetheless, my lord Damelon,” he said smoothly. “the cleansing of her son’s wound will comfort the lady.” Turning to Jeremiah, he inquired, “Will you permit me?”

“I don’t need-” Jeremiah began, but a fierce glare from Covenant stopped him. “You’re right,” he told the Theomach with a shrug. “It’ll make Mom feel better.”

Covenant kept his right hand grimly in his pocket.

Saluting as he had to Berek, the Theomach accepted the bowl and rags from Damelon’s mystified hands. His manner suggested pity as he moistened a cloth, then reached out carefully to stroke drying blood away from Jeremiah’s cheek and eye.

That task should have been Linden’s. For a moment, her grief became a kind of rage, and she trembled with the force of her desire to extract real answers from her companions. But she contained herself. There was too much at stake for anger. Her emotions would exact too much from those who needed her.

For a moment, the Theomach continued to wash Jeremiah’s wound assiduously. Jeremiah suffered the Insequent’s ministrations with glum resignation. And Covenant took long draughts of the harsh wine with an air of outrage, as if he were swallowing insults. Then Linden felt Berek approaching: his aura of Earthpower, compassion, and grimness preceded him like a standard-bearer.

Damelon seemed to become aware of his father’s nearness almost as soon as Linden did. Bowing to her, the Hand murmured. “My lady,” and left the tent.

When Berek entered, he came like a man wreathed in storms. Indignant lightnings flickered in the depths of his eyes, and his expression was a thunderhead. Linden might have flinched if she had believed, even for an instant, that his ire was directed at her; or at Jeremiah and Covenant. But she grasped instinctively that he would not have been so unguarded if any of his guests had angered him.

“What have you done about Inbull, my lord?’ she asked without thinking. “He’s betraying you. You must know that?”

The Theomach stiffened, but did not speak. Instead he dabbed at Jeremiah’s eye as if he had heard nothing to alarm him.

Berek took a moment to compose himself. He poured wine into a flagon, drank a bit of it, grimaced ruefully. When he faced Linden’s question, he had set aside his personal storm.

“The Warhaft has betrayed us. He betrays us still. Therefore he is of use.

“It is well that you did not accuse him in his presence. He believes himself unsuspected. Rather I have encouraged him to consider that he is secretly valued for his harshness. This night, I have strengthened his misapprehension.” The memory brought back Berek’s anger and disgust, although he did not unleash them. “He has contrived a means to communicate with the commander of our foes. Warmark Vettalor is a man with whom I am well familiar. We served together before my Queen broke with her King. I know his method of thought. Through Inbull, I am able to supply the Warmark with lies”- Berek snarled the words- “which he will credit. While the Warhaft’s falseness remains unexposed, I hold an advantage which Vettalor does not suspect.

“I loathe such deceit,” the first Halfhand admitted bitterly. “But my forces do not suffice to defeat Vettalor’s. And I have no source of supply apart from the battlegrounds where I prevail, and the food which I scavenge from needy villages, while Vettalor retreats ever nearer to the wealth of Doriendor Corishev. It would be false service to my Queen, and to my warriors, and to my oath, if I declined the benefits of Inbull’s treachery.”

Which explained his ire and disgust, Linden mused. It explained why despair clung to him in spite of his salvation by the FireLions and his subsequent victories. By his severe standards, he bartered away his self-respect to purchase victory.

The Old Lords were all about despair. It gave them some of their greatest victories. To that extent, at least, Covenant had told her the truth. It’s what saved Berek.

With an effort, Linden said quietly, “I see the problem.” She wanted to cry out, He hit my son! But larger considerations-Berek’s as well as her own-restrained her.

Whatever the Theomach’s motives might be, he had given her good advice.

Nevertheless she pushed Berek further. “What did you tell Inbull about us?” She wanted some indication, however oblique, of where she and her companions stood with the future High Lord.

Drinking again, Berek replied, “Naught. His uncertainty concerning you will serve me well. I have merely”- his voice carried a sting of repugnance- “assured him privily that I find worth in his brutality.”

Flourishing his arm in an obvious attempt to attract Berek’s attention, the Insequent finished cleaning Jeremiah’s wound. With the blood and grime gone from her son’s face, Linden saw to her surprise that he had already begun to heal. Despite the swelling, he could slit open his left eye. To her ordinary senses, his eye itself appeared bloodshot, but essentially undamaged.

When Berek voiced his approval of the Theomach’s care, the wrapped man replied, “My lord, it suffices that I have been of service. If I may say so without disrespect, however, greater matters than this boys hurt or lnbull’s betrayal lie between us. We would do well to speak of them while we may.”

“Perhaps.” Berek’s worn sound grated against the Theomach’s light assurance. “Certainly you are strange to me. And your offer of aid is disquieting, for it appears to be given without cause. We will speak of it. If my many needs compel me to endure lnbull’s betrayals, I can refuse no other assistance. But the queries which fill my heart pertain chiefly to the lady Linden.