Stephen Donaldson - Fatal Revenant

But she could not unclose her fingers from the Staff. The wound paralysed them: their nerves had shut down. And she had no attention to spare for them. Other exigencies consumed her.

She could see clearly; might never weep again. Nevertheless she made no attempt to stand. Instead she remained on her knees as though the croyel’s attack had accomplished its purpose.

Roger waited until Jeremiah had stepped back; resumed his pose of slack passivity. Then Covenant’s son jeered, “Shame on you, Dr. Avery. You should know this. The Theomach is a meddling asshole, but he doesn’t lie. And I told you the truth.

“Why did we need you? Because otherwise the Elohim would have stopped us. They’re terrified somebody is going to wake up the Worm of the World’s End. As long as we had the Sun-Sage, the Wildwielder”- he pronounced her titles contemptuously, scathing her- “they could convince themselves they didn’t need to do anything. They believe you’re going to protect the Arch and deal with Kastenessen, so why should they bother?

“No, Doctor. The question you should be asking is, why did we have to take you out of your own time to get what we wanted?” He paused, apparently expecting her to respond-or enjoying her helplessness. But she was not beaten: not yet. Her detachment defended her from the excruciation of Jeremiah’s dagger in her hand. And her son’s enslavement galvanised her. While Roger mocked her, she gathered herself.

He still had not explained why he-or his masters-considered it vital to keep her away from Andelain. The creature had attacked to distract her.

Apart from the claiming of your vacant son, I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events.

Goaded by her son’s suffering, Linden wanted to rage at Roger, This is all your doing. Kastenessen is in too much pain to think. Lord Foul isn’t willing to risk himself. And Esmer can’t pick a side. It’s on your head. Even your own mother-You’re responsible for all of it.

He had kidnapped her son; had dragged Jeremiah into the path of death.

But she remained where she knelt as if she were transfixed between her own agony and Jeremiah’s. She did not choose to waste the remnants of her will and courage on empty recrimination.

It was clear that Roger would not explain his fear of Andelain. She set that issue aside.

All right.” She did not raise her voice above a lorn whisper. She had no strength to spare. “Tell me, since that’s obviously what you want. Why did you take me out of my own time’?” “It’s complicated,” he said at once, gleefully. “Of course, we told you the truth. The EarthBlood really isn’t accessible where you belong. Elena’s battle with Kevin is going to tear this whole place apart. There won’t be anything left of this tunnel and that nice convenient trough.

“But Foul still wants to tear down the Arch of Time. He wants to escape. He wants revenge. And he’s tired of being defeated by my shit of a father. This way-” Roger cast another swath of fire and eagerness around the cave. “Dr. Avery, this way he can’t fail.

“First,” he explained as if he were proud of himself, “there was always the chance you might do something to violate Time. We gave you plenty of opportunities. If you did, good. We’d be spared the trouble of coming here. But if you didn’t, you still might trust us enough to let one of us drink first. Then we could Command the Worm to wake up.” He grinned ferociously. “Since you haven’t done either of those things, we can just kill you and drink anyway.

“But even if that doesn’t work-if we can’t kill you, which doesn’t seem very plausible under the circumstances-you’re still stuck here.” His halfhand blazed, casting familiar embers into his eyes. “Ten thousand years in your own past. With a Staff of Law. And my ring. Every breath you take is going to violate Time. And you can’t escape without a caesure.” He snarled a laugh. “I almost hope you survive so you can try that. Please. The Laws of Death and Life haven’t been damaged yet. You’ll shatter the world. But if you don’t, you’re still going to change everything.

“There’s more, of course, but I won’t bother you with it. Here’s the point. Frankly, Dr. Avery, ever since we got you away from your present, there haven’t been any possible outcomes that don’t give us exactly what we want. Plus, of course, we get to watch you cower. We get to watch you suffer for your poor kid. That alone makes all this trouble worthwhile.” Linden should have quailed. His certainty was as bitter as the touch of a Raver: it should have defeated her. But it did not. How often had she heard Lord Foul or his servants prophesy destruction, attempting to impose despair? And how often had Thomas Covenant shown her that it was possible to stand upright under the weight of utter hopelessness?

Still kneeling, feigning weakness, she protested. “You aren’t making sense.” Deliberately she let the pain in her hand leak into her voice. “You want to rouse the Worm. You want to break the Arch. But then you’ll be destroyed. Lord Foul can escape. You can’t. Why are you so eager to die?” “Well, it’s true,” Roger drawled happily. “Kastenessen hasn’t thought it through. All he cares about is wreaking havoc on the Elohim. If he’s killed in the carnage, at least he won’t hurt anymore.

“The croyel and I have other plans. Foul has promised to take us with him. And he’ll keep that promise. He needs your kid. Hell, he owns him. How else do you suppose the croyel got access to everything your kid knows, everything he can do? He’s belonged to Foul for years.

“But even if Foul tries to cheat us, we’ll still get what we want. The croyel can use your kid’s talent. You’ve seen that. He’ll make us a door. A portal to eternity.” He glanced around at the tunnel. “All the materials he needs are right here. While the Worm tears this world apart, we’ll open our door and go through it.

“Face it, Dr. Avery.” Passion and brimstone condemned Roger’s gaze. “You’ve done everything conceivable to help us become gods.” Inadvertently Roger aided her. He hurt her more severely than any mere physical wound. The thought that the Despiser had claimed her son long ago-that Jeremiah may have participated in his own subservience to the croyel- was worse than any threat of absolute ruin, any image of apocalypse. Roger may have been lying in an attempt to break her. Instead he transfigured her.

They have done this to my son.

While Roger talked, she anchored herself on the muddy void of Jeremiah’s gaze, the slackness of Jeremiah’s cheeks and jaw, the useless dexterity of his dangling hands. Her pain and blood and repudiation she focused on the cruel parasite feeding from his neck.

“I’m sure that’s fascinating,” she said through her teeth. “You’ll enjoy it. But there are a few things you don’t understand.” His eyes widened in amusement; false surprise. “Like what’?” Linden bowed her head as though she intended to prostrate herself. Past the concealment of her hair, she muttered. “Like who I am.” Then she drew lightning as pure as charged sunlight from the upraised iron heel of the Staff and hurled it simultaneously at both Roger and the croyel.

While her blast flared and echoed in the constriction of the tunnel, she surged to her feet. Unable still to uncramp her pierced hand from the Staff, she used her left to shift the shaft so that she could brace its length under her left arm, hold it like a lance.

Her attack was abrupt and brief; yet it should have damaged her foes. But it did not. It failed to reach them. Reeling backward, Roger flung out an eruption of magma to intercept the Staffs blaze.