Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

With unconvincing nonchalance, Covenant asked, “How’s it going, Jeremiah?” but the boy did not answer. His concentration was as complete as it had ever been in Linden’s living room. His eyes had resumed the muddy hue with which she was familiar-the colour that she had learned to love-and he seemed lost in his task; reclaimed by dissociation.

Already he had raised the walls of his construct to the height of Linden’s chest. When she walked around it in a vain attempt to understand it, she saw that he had left a gap in the side toward Melenkurion Skyweir’s cliffs. Once we climb inside- For a moment, she wondered whether the opening would be too small for her. But he knew what he was doing. If she turned sideways, and handled the Staff carefully-

Without apparent effort, Jeremiah picked up a log which he should have needed help to lift and put it in position, propping its ends atop branches that were obviously too unstable to hold its weight. Yet the structure did not topple: it hardly wobbled. Then it seemed to become visibly sturdier.

As he began to devise a roof for his edifice, Linden felt faint emanations of power from the construct. And they grew stronger with every added branch. Somehow the shapes and positions and intersections of his materials evoked a form of theurgy from the dead wood.

His magic did not smell or taste familiar. Certainly it did not resemble any manifestation of the Earth’s essential vitality that she had encountered before. Nor did it remind her of the darkness of the Viles, or the malign vitriol of the Demondim. It did not imitate the illimitable liquid possibilities of the Elohim , or Esmer’s storm-charged potency, or the dangerous eagerness of wild magic. Yet she discerned no wrongness in the energies of the construct; no violation of Law.

Linden’s son had brought into the Land a form of puissance entirely his own.

When he had finished bracing and balancing dead limbs to fashion a roof, the entire construct seemed to thrum with constrained readiness. At the same time, it looked as solid and irrefusable as the rock of its floor. And on a level too visceral for language, it called to Linden. Although the wood was dead, it possessed-or Jeremiah had given it-a palpable intention, a will to be used. In spite of her rapt surprise and her many fears, she wanted to enter the portal immediately.

But this was Jeremiah’s magic, not hers. She needed his instructions or permission: she owed him that. Out of respect for his talent, his accomplishment, she waited until he stepped back from his task and looked around, first at Covenant, then at her.

“Good,” Covenant pronounced with obvious approval. “That should do it. Looks like we’re ready.”

Linden’s reaction was stronger. When Jeremiah met her gaze, blinking as though he had been asleep, she allowed herself a moment of simple humanity. “Oh, Jeremiah, honey,” she breathed. “My God. You said that you could do this, but I had no idea-I didn’t really understand. This is the most wonderful-”

Her throat closed. Under other circumstances, her eyes would have filled with tears. But there was no room for weeping or grief in what she meant to do.

His tic intensified, signalling until he could hardly open his left eye. “I’m glad you like it,” he said bashfully. “I could do a lot more, if I had the right things to work with.”

Then he faced Covenant again. “We should go. You’ve been under too much strain for a long time.”

Covenant grinned fiercely. “I’m ready. If I get any readier, I’m going to rupture something.”

He must have believed that he had persuaded Linden-

“Then, Mom-” Jeremiah kept his face turned away from her. You go first. Be careful with the Staff. It won’t fit. You’ll have to poke it through a gap. Once you’re inside, get down on your hands and knees at the back. Brace yourself. Well be in there with you. When the ground shifts, you might touch one of us. Or the Staff might. We won’t have room to dodge.”

“All right,” she murmured. “I understand.”

She approached the opening slowly, searching for the best way to enter. She did not fear treachery here. It would serve no purpose. But she had to be sure that she did not dislodge any detail of Jeremiah’s design.

At last, reluctantly, she placed her Staff near the opening. Without it, she turned sideways, trusting percipience to guide her as she hunched down and stepped warily into the structure.

Inside the cage, she grasped the Staff by one end and pulled it after her. Near a corner of the back wall, Jeremiah had left a space between the branches and Rivenrock’s granite. As she drew the Staff inward, she slid one of its heels through that space. With elaborate care, she positioned the Staff so that it lay on stone near the wall without touching any of the deadwood. Then she knelt over it, planting her hands and knees so that she could simply crumple and lie flat if she lost her balance-and so that she could grab the Staff quickly if she needed it.

At once, the cold of the rock began to soak into her like water. Aching spread from her palms and fingers toward her wrists: shivers accumulated in her chest like the mountain’s impending earthquake.

The precise emanations of the construct did not waver or change. Although they had called to her, they did not react to her presence. The thoughtless intention humming in the wood was not yet satisfied. Or it had not been completed-

As soon as she was in position, Covenant followed, moving brusquely as if he were confident that he would not disturb Jeremiah’s theurgy. Unlike Linden, however, he did not kneel or sit down. Instead he stood crouching with his hands braced on his thighs for support.

He had placed himself as far from Linden as he could without obstructing Jeremiah. His eyes watched the boy: she could not see them.

I yell because I hurt. Perhaps he understood Kastenessen. Everything he does is just another way of screaming.

And when that doesn’t work-

Yet Covenant did not give the impression that he was in pain. He was closed to her health-sense; but her ordinary perceptions had been whetted by years of training. She saw nothing to confirm his claims of distress and exertion.

For a moment after Covenant had entered the crooked box, Jeremiah remained outside to gather up the last twigs and small branches. Then he, too, slipped through the opening without hesitation, sure of his relationship with his construct.

“Get ready, Linden.” Covenant’s voice was husky with anticipation. He sounded like a man on the verge of a defining triumph. “It won’t be long now.”

And when that doesn’t work, he maims-

Carefully Jeremiah fitted his larger pieces of deadwood across the gap, set them in position to complete his portal. As he did so, the power constrained within the construct increased again. Its vibrations grew more urgent. The cage still seemed stable, inert; petrified in place. It made no audible sound. Nonetheless its thrumming affected Linden’s nerves as if it might shake itself apart at any moment.

When he had adjusted the final branches, he began to balance his twigs among them apparently at random. The mute call of the construct became a cavernous growl. She felt it in the base of her throat, the centre of her chest.

“Fuck the Theomach,” Covenant muttered through his teeth. “Fuck the Elohim . Fuck them all.”

Then Jeremiah was finished. Instantly Melenkurion Skyweir and Rivenrock, the sunlight and the wide sky, disappeared as though they had been wiped from the face of the world. Linden and all of her choices were plunged into absolute darkness.

She felt the stone under her slip and tilt. She started to drop down, lie flat: then she caught herself. The tilt was slight; so slight that the Staff did not move. Braced, she was able to keep her balance while her senses reeled, scrambling to accommodate realities which had been profoundly altered.