Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

The Elohim considered her the Wildwielder. If they were right, the

Viles should have feared her. She might bring Time and all existence to an end.

“You can hear me,” she pronounced, speaking now in lambent chrysoprase and jacinth rather than saffron blots. “I deserve an answer. If you think that you have the right to destroy me, you owe me an explanation. I haven’t done anything to you. I wouldn’t harm you if I could.

“Why are you here?”

Semiprecious gems winked and hinted among the streaming tendrils. Then they were gone.

We will not heed her.Disdain and scruples crept over her skin. We must.

Before she could insist on a reply, all or several or one of the Viles stated in stark obsidian, Lover of trees, we are here because the others exert hazardous theurgies-and you permit them, holding powers which have no need of theirs. Your folly compels us. The wood that you claim must defy them, yet it does not.

Simultaneously other avatars proclaimed, You strive toward Melenkurion Skyweir and the Power of Command. But the master of white gold has no use for the EarthBlood, and its Power cannot Command wild magic.

You serve a purpose not your own, and have no purpose.

The voices daunted her. Her commingled senses confounded her. The Viles knew too much; and yet they did not know enough to recognise their true peril. Nor could they comprehend her love for her son. They were not mortal.

We will not survive-

The wood that you claim must defy them-

They had answered her. Yet they had not told her what she wanted to know.

Shaping her bafflement into a form of persistence, she said. “No. Not that.” Now the words emerged as emerald and malachite; reified consternation. “I’ve already told you. That doesn’t have anything to do with you.

“Why are you here ? In this part of the Land? You live in the Lost Deep.” — in caverns as ornate and majestic as castles. “If you weren’t so far from where you belong, you wouldn’t know or care about us.”

There they devoted their vast power and knowledge to the making of beauty and wonder, and all of their works were filled with loveliness.

Covenant and Jeremiah may have continued calling to her, but she could not feel their voices.

This time, the surprise of the Viles smelled of decay and old rot; mouldering. She has lore. To assume ignorance misleads us.

She does not,they declared scornfully. No mere human knows of our demesne.

Separately and in unison, one at a time, together, they announced, She has been taught. Advised. Therefore she hazards devastation.

Therefore, they concluded, she must be answered.

Therefore, they also decided, she must not.

Their darkness gathered until it threatened to blot out the sun. Are we not Viles? Do we fear her?If they chose to extinguish her, they would be able to do so. The bewilderment of her senses left her vulnerable.

When she fell, they might claim Covenant’s ring-

Yet she saw them pronounce clearly, We do not.

We do not, they agreed. We also have been advised.

Their ire and assent as they answered her smelled as mephitic as a charnel. Lover of trees, they flared like a plunge into a chasm, lightless and unfathomable, we have learned that this remnant of forest despises us. Its master considers us with disdain. We have come to discover the cause of his contumely. We have done naught to merit opprobrium among the woodlands.

Linden might have been horrified; incapable of argument. But Esmer had prepared her for this. That which appears evil need not have been so from the beginning, and need not remain so until the end. Hidden among his betrayals were gifts as precious as friendship.

In shapes as ready as knives, colours as obdurate as travertine, she countered. “That’s a lie. You were “advised”. You said so. By the Ravers. But they didn’t tell you the truth. These trees don’t despise you. They’re too busy grieving. It’s humans they hate. My kind. Not yours.”

“Damnation,” said Covenant in a visceral mutter, a sensation of squirming across Linden’s defenceless skin. “She’s trying to reason with them.”

“I told you.” Jeremiah’s voice made no sound, but she could see it. It was crimson, the precise hue of blood; bright with disgust and grudging admiration. “I remember her. She doesn’t give up.”

“Then we’ll have to do it.” Covenant’s reply itched like swarming ants. “Get ready.”

Linden’s heart yearned for her companions. But she ignored them. She could not reach them now. Surrounded by Viles and implicit death, she had brought herself to a precipice, and could only keep her balance or die.

The makers of the Demondim might resolve their hermetic debate by snuffing out her life. But the risks if she swayed them were no less extreme. Contradicting the seductions of the Ravers, she might irretrievably alter the Land’s history. A cascade of consequences might spread throughout time. If the Viles did not learn to loathe themselves, they would not create the Demondim-who would in turn not create-

With every word, she risked the Arch of Time.

Nevertheless she did not allow herself to hesitate or falter. Here, at least, she believed that calamity was not inevitable. The Law of Time opposed its own disintegration. And the effects of what she did might well prove temporary. Her arguments might do nothing more than delay the gradual corruption of the Viles.

The wood that you claim must defy them, yet it does not.

“Sure,” she continued as though her companions had not spoken, the Forestal is angry. His trees have been slaughtered. But his rage isn’t aimed at you. If you don’t threaten Garroting Deep, he won’t even acknowledge that you’re here.”

Risking everything, uttering sulphur and incarnadine to the gloom, she averred, “You’ve been lied to. You’re being manipulated. The Ravers hate trees. They want you to do the same. Not because they care about you. Not because you’re in any danger. They just want you to start hating .” Extinguishing. “If you do that enough, you’ll end up just like them.”

All contempt turns upon the contemptuous, as it must.

For an immeasurable time, the Viles were silent. Linden felt serpentine darkness coil and twist around her, a nest of snakes and self-dissent; smelled subterranean stone and dust, caves so old and deeply buried that they may have been airless. Get ready. Jeremiah and Covenant had reached a decision, but it lay beyond her discernment. Sensory confusion cut her off from everything except the hollow and the dusk.

Then all or some of the black tendrils repeated, She has lore.And others insisted, It is not lore. It is given knowledge. She has been taught. She merely holds powers which surpass her.

They debated among themselves, gathering vehemence with every assertion. Then the others must concern us.

They do not. They are no mystery to us.

This contention is foolish.The fierceness of the voices blinded Linden. She no longer saw sounds: she felt them. They scraped along her skin like the teeth of a rasp. We cannot accuse her. She has spoken sooth. We also are moved by given knowledge. Have we not heeded those who report that we are despised?

We have. What of that? We seek only comprehension. The intent of her companions is far otherwise. And she consents by withholding her strength. For that reason, we confront her.