Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (107 page)

her in Covenant’s voice. Among the rich grasses of Revelstone’s upland plateau, he had offered her friends rue and advice. And here every aspect of the tangible world was more—

The hillside glistened with grace, green and lavish. The air was a cleansing ache in her lungs, and the springtime daisies, forsythia, and columbine were as bright as laughter. Every tree spread its leaves in wealth and majesty. The late sunlight offered warmth to soothe

the chill of Linden’s damp clothes.

She did not know how Anele would respond. The tonic atmosphere might comfort him. Or he might feel threatened by the inherent health on every side. Or he might be possessed

Galesend had already lowered him to the ground. Now, however, the company had no blankets to protect him.

Suppressing her own reaction to escape and glory, Linden approached the old man. Softly she murmured his name.

For a moment, he seemed unaware of her. His moonstone gaze wandered the southward expanse of the Hills, and he stood stiffly erect as if he were awaiting the acknowledgment of an august host. But then a subtle alteration came over him. As he turned toward Linden, his posture loosened. Studying her, he

seemed to peer outward through veils of madness.

“Ah, Linden,” he sighed. His voice was his own; but it was also Hollian’s, light and loving, and as poignant as lamentation. “You should not have come. The hazard is too great. Darkness consumes you. The Despiser has planned long and cunningly for your presence, and his snares are many.”

Anele paused, swallowing grief. He blinked at tears which were not his. Then he continued to speak words bestowed by his long-dead mother.

“Yet the sight of you gladdens me. I pray that you will be able to bear the burden of so many needs. There is more in Andelain-and among the Dead-and in your heart-than Lord Foul can conceive.”

The old man started to withdraw. But

before Linden could cry out to him-or to Hollian-he faced her again. “Be kind to my beloved son,” he said, quietly imploring. “His vision of his parents is too lofty. He torments himself for faults which are not his. When your deeds have come to doom, as they must, remember that he is the hope of the Land.

“This, also, the Despiser and all who serve him cannot imagine.”

Abruptly Anele turned to the south. While Linden floundered in silence, shaken and unsure, he strode away from her. After a moment, he began to run deeper into Andelain as if he could hear Hollian and Sunder calling for him.

“Linden?” Liand asked. Apparently Anele’s voice and her distress had pierced his jubilant astonishment. “Linden? Shall I follow after him? Will he be lost?”

Liand’s concern seemed to rouse the Ramen. Mahrtiir rose to his feet: his wrapped head moved like a hawk’s as he scrutinized his companions. At once, Bhapa and Pahni stood. The young Cord’s mien promised that she would accompany Liand if he pursued Anele.

Linden’s eyes burned, but they were dry. “No.” The stone of her purpose was too hard for weeping. “Let him go. He’s safe here.” When your deeds

have come to doom-“If we don’t catch up with him, he’ll wander back to us eventually.”-as they must-“In the meantime, maybe he’ll find a little peace.”

-remember that he is the hope of the Land.

After an instant of hesitation, Liand nodded. The angle of his raven eyebrows showed that he was more troubled on Linden’s behalf than

Anele’s. But she had nothing more to say to him. She was not prepared to explain why she intended to ignore Ho!lien’s warning.

While Anele ran, Branl and Galt emerged from the trees near the boundary of Andelain. Like Clyme, they seemed confident that they had passed beyond danger. Without obvious hurry, they trotted lightly into crystalline cleanliness. Soon they joined Clyme amid the wildflowers and the casual

hum of feeding bees.

Rime Coldspray had gathered her Swordmainnir around her. For a few moments, they spoke together in low voices. Then the Ironhand turned to address the Humbled.

We are Giants,” she said formally. “and have not found pleasure in the unwelcome of the Masters. But the time has come to set aside such affronts. In the name of my comrades,

I thank you for your many labors. You are the Humbled, Masters of the Land. But you are also Haruchai, and have done much to ensure our lives. I hope that you will honor us by accepting our gratitude.”

The Humbled faced her impassively. In a flat tone, Branl said. “There is no need for gratitude, Rime Coldspray, Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. The unwelcome of which you speak was not meant as unfriendship. We were

concerned only that your open hearts and tales might undermine our service to the Land. Now you have accomplished that which we deemed impossible. With the aid of this unlikely Stonedownor-he indicated Liand- “you have wrested the lives of Linden Avery’s company from the jaws of the skurj. Together we acknowledge your deeds. When the time comes to speak of you before the Masters assembled in Revelstone, we will speak with one voice, and will be heeded.”

Sure, Linden thought dourly. Of course you will. The Humbled had as much authority among their people as Handir. But Branl had not revealed what he would say to the Masters.

She intended to pursue the question with Stave later, when she had a chance to talk to him alone.

Nonetheless Coldspray inclined her head as if Branl had satisfied her. Only her frown and an oblique timbre of

anger in her voice suggested otherwise as she continued, “Yet our gratitude remains. Therefore we ask your counsel. We are Giants. We must grieve for those whom we have lost. For that reason, we require a caamora. We wish to gather wood from Salva Gildenbourne, that we may express our sorrow in fire. Will your Mastery gainsay us? Will our flames offend the spirit of Andelain?”

If the Humbled felt any reluctance, they

did not reveal it. Instead Clyme replied, “Ironhand, we have no heart for sorrow. Yet here we would not oppose any need or desire of the Swordmainnir. And Andelain is the soul and essence of the Land. As the Land has known grief beyond description, so the Hills themselves are familiar with mourning and loss. Your flames cannot give offense where their meaning is shared and honored.”

“That is well,” said Coldspray gruffly.

“Accept our thanks.”

With a gesture, she sent Cabledarm and Latebirth back down the slope toward the darkening forest.

Linden still did not know the name of the Giant who had died on the tor.

Doubtless Cabledarm and Latebirth were safe enough. If they sensed the skurj, or any other foes, they could return to Andelain quickly. While

Mahrtiir instructed Bhapa and Pahni to forage for treasure-berries, Linden drew Earthpower from her Staff again; but she did not do so to protect the Giants. Rather she turned her attention and the Staff’s flame, as yellow and lively as buttercups, to healing.

The Swordmainnir needed better care than she had given them earlier. Now she treated their many wounds with more diligence. Walking slowly among the women, she tended severed nerves

and blood vessels, ripped flesh and muscles. Gently she cauterized bleeding, burned away sepsis, repaired bone. The Giants were hardy: their wellsprings of health ran deep. Nevertheless the virulence of the poisons left by the fangs and blood of the monsters shocked her. Already every wound oozed with infection. The most severe hurts required a delicate balance of power and precision.

Kindwind’s condition was the worst.

Septicemia had polluted her

bloodstream, and her long exertions had spread its taint throughout her body. Linden could not cleanse away the infection until she had searched the marrow of Kindwind’s bones with percipience and strict fire.

By comparison, repairing the structure of Bluntfist’s cheek was a simple task, easily completed. The burns suffered by Liand, the Ramen, and Stave responded well to their given healing.

Linden expected her own weariness to hamper her efforts, but it did not. Andelain’s air was a roborant, restoring her reserves. It dimmed the effects of Kevin’s Dirt. Every glance around the ineffable Hills strengthened her. And the grass under her boots sent a caress of warmth and generosity along her nerves. While she worked, she found that she was capable of more than she had imagined.

The krill was in Andelain. Esmer had

said so. The Hills themselves might make her strong enough to fulfill her intentions.

As she tended the Swordmainnir, their wonder and thankfulness gathered palpably around her. The tales of their people had not prepared them for what could be accomplished with health-sense and Earthpower. Even the First and Pitchwife had never seen her wield the Staff as she used it here.

If these women ever found their way Home, they would tell long tales about Linden’s efforts. Like the other Giants whom she had known, they relished small miracles as much as grander achievements.

When Cabledarm and Latebirth returned, they bore huge stacks of deadwood. For a moment, Cabledarm bowed over the spot where she meant to build a fire as if she were asking the grass and ground to forgive her. Then

she readied a small pile of twigs and kindling, took out her pouch of tinder and stones, and began to strike sparks.

As the wood began to burn, Linden cared for Cabledarm and Latebirth with the same attentiveness that she had expended on Coldspray and her other companions.

In the west, the sun was setting among the tallest trees. Long shadows blurred by distance streaked the hillside while

darkness accumulated in the margins of Salva Gildenbourne. A soothing breeze wafted like beneficence among the Hills. Pahni and Bhapa brought back an abundance of aliantha to nourish the company. And water was plentiful nearby. The stream which had led the Giants here ran eastward along the foot of the slope until it found its own course into Andelain.

Within the borders of the Land’s essential health and bounty, Rime

Coldspray and her comrades formed a circle around Cabledarm’s fire and began their ritual of grief.

They were Giants: they took their time. Dusk and then night covered the hillside. Slowly stars added their cold glitter to the subdued dance of the flames. In the numinous dark, the Swordmainnir raised their voices as if they addressed Andelain and the wide heavens as well as each other.

First the Ironhand spoke sternly of “fault.” The previous night, she had accepted some responsibility for Longwrath’s condition. Now she claimed a similar blame for Scend Wavegift’s death. Certainly Latebirth had erred. She was mortal: she could be taken by surprise, or suffer mishap, as easily as any being defined by birth and death. But she had not caused Longwrath’s plight-and the deed of Wavegift’s end was his, not Latebirth’s.

Then Coldspray assumed the fault-if fault there was-for Moire Squareset, who had been slain by the skurj. Responsibility belonged to the Ironhand, whose decisions led the Swordmainnir. Like Wavegift’s, Squareset’s blood was on Coldspray’s hands or no one’s, for even Longwrath could not be held accountable. While she lived, she would both accuse and forgive herself.

When she was done, she knelt beside

the fire and reached into the heart of the flames with both hands as though she sought to burn them clean.

Her flesh refused the harm of fire, but it could not refuse the pain. Her act was a deliberate immolation: in flame and willing agony, she surrendered her bereavement and remorse. This was the Giantish caamora, the articulation of their grief. In some sense, Linden understood it, although it filled her with dismay. Coldspray kept her hands in

the fire while Cabledarm stoked it with more and more wood. A scream stretched the lronhand’s mouth, but she did not permit herself to voice it. The flames spoke for her.

The Ramen watched with their fists clenched and a kind of ferocity in their eyes. Long ago, their ancestors had known the Unhomed. Ramen may have witnessed a caamora: they had certainly given the story to their descendants. But millennia had passed

since any Ramen had seen what transpired here. Their legends could not have prepared them for the intensity of Coldspray’s chosen excruciation.

Liand stood near Pahni, but he did not touch her. He needed his arms; needed to clasp them across his chest with all of his strength in order to contain his horror and empathy, his protests. Unlike the Ramen and Linden-and the Haruchai-he had

nothing except his health-sense to help him comprehend what he was seeing.

Finally Coldspray withdrew. As she regained her feet, her arms trembled, and tears spilled from her eyes. But her hands were whole.

Cirrus Kindwind was the next to speak. In careful detail, alternately grave and

humorous, she described Moire

Squareset’s training and initiation

among the Swordmainnir. Kindwind

herself, with Onyx Stonemage and two other Giants, had been charged with developing Squareset’s skills, and she remembered those years with loving vividness. She knew Squareset’s strengths and weaknesses intimately, and she gave them all to the night.

Then she took her turn in the flames. The harsh silence of her pain and rue was so loud that Linden did not know how to bear it.

When Kindwind was done, Stormpast Galesend told similar tales of Scend Wavegift. She, too, thrust her hands into the fire. Grueburn, Bluntfist, and the rest of the Giants related their experiences with Wavegift and Squareset, their shared love and laughter, their memories of blunders and triumphs and longing. Each in turn, they offered their grief to the flames, and endured agony, and were annealed. Separately as well as together, they gave the ambergris of

their woe to the dead.

But Linden turned away long before the Giants were done. She could not release her own tears and fury: they had been fused, made adamantine, by Roger’s betrayal and Jeremiah’s immeasurable suffering. She, too, yearned for a caamora-but not like this. Her heart craved an altogether different fire.

When she had gained some distance

from the firelight and the Giants, she spent a while studying the vast isolation of the stars. In the expanse of the heavens, only the faintest glimmer of their mourning reached her-or each other. Yet she heeded their infinite lament. They could not burn away their loneliness without extinguishing themselves.