Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (111 page)

“Swordmainnir!” called the Ironhand

with a laugh. “Here is opportunity for refreshment. Never let it be said that Giants shun clear water and cleansing!”

At once, she plunged into the Soulsease with her comrades behind her, chuckling as they forged ahead. Without warning, Grueburn threw a splash of water in Cabledarm’s face. Stonemage responded by drenching Bluntfist. But their play did not slow them. In spite of their mirth, they

carried their swords drawn.

Mahrtiir and Narunal entered the river after the Giants. Bhapa and Pahni, and then Clyme and Branl, positioned themselves around Linden, Liand, and Anele as they followed the Manethrall.

When the water hit Linden’s legs, she caught her breath. The Soulsease was colder than she had expected. But it did not resemble the winter which she had experienced with Roger and the croyel.

The river was distilled springtime; the eagerness of fertility and flowing after winter’s long sleep. Its touch conveyed hints of the world’s renewal. And Hyn passed through it easily, thrusting ahead when her hooves could find the bottom, swimming with her head held high when they could not.

Surging up from the watercourse, Stave and Galt greeted the Harrow. If he granted them a reply, Linden did not hear it. Motionless on his destrier, he

did not so much as incline his head to the Haruchai-or to the Swordmainnir when they splashed out of the river and surrounded him. This is an un

looked-for meeting,” Coldspray

announced. “Declare yourself,

stranger.” But the Harrow’s answer-if he gave one-did not reach Linden. Encircled by swords, he appeared to do nothing except wait for the arrival of his desires.

A fading glow still held the sky as Hyn

gained the riverbank; heaved herself and her rider out of the Soulsease. The evening was too early for stars. And the Harrow had placed himself beneath the outspread shadows of a broad oak at the water’s edge. Linden saw him as little more than a deeper blackness in the coming night. His leather apparel seemed to muffle or diffuse his aura; mask his intentions.

His destrier was more tangible. The beast was a gelding as massive and tall

as Mhornym. It champed at its bit and fretted while its master sat without moving. Occasional quivers ran through its muscles like small galvanic shocks, jolts of excitement or terror. But its tension did not trouble the Harrow. Instead his mount’s disquiet only made him look more unpredictable and dangerous.

Stave and Mahrtiir moved to escort Linden as she advanced. The Soulsease had carried her eastward:

she faced the Harrow with the last of the sunset in her eyes. Some of the Swordmainnir stepped aside to watch over Liand, Anele, and the Cords, but Coldspray, Grueburn, and Stonemage continued to confront the Insequent with their weapons ready.

Poised for battle, the Humbled regarded him impassively. He had already defeated them once. He had done so without difficulty. Yet Linden recognized that his physical strength

did not equal theirs. His prowess was external in some fashion: an expression of acquired theurgy rather than of innate might. He wore his magicks like a form of raiment, as elaborate and distinctive as his leather garb.

When she reached the verge of the oak’s shade, she asked Hyn to stop. She wanted to keep her distance. She could not see his eyes, but she was sure that he could see hers-and those

of her companions. He had vowed that he would not make a second attempt to swallow her mind. He had called on his fellow Insequent to ensure that he kept his word. However, he had not promised to refrain from threatening her friends.

Mahrtiir and Anele were safe. The intransigence of the Haruchai might protect them from a fall into the Harrow’s bottomless gaze. Even the Giants might be able to resist. But

Liand, Bhapa, and Pahni had no defense. If the Harrow wanted leverage—

Time seemed to stretch as though it might tear. The darkness under the oak became all darkness despite the faint light beyond the shadows. The Giants shifted their feet, waiting for Linden to speak. The destrier stamped one hoof restively.

Linden secured her grip on the Staff.

With one hand, she touched Covenant’s ring through the fabric of her shirt.

“Say something,” she demanded. “I’m here. It’s your move.”

The Harrow laughed softly. “Be welcome in Andelain, lady.” His voice held the fertile depth of damp loam. Unlike Esmer, he had suffered no apparent damage in their earlier struggle. “You will find much to delight

and surprise you in this bourne of peace.”

He may have been mocking her.

“Don’t play games with me,” she retorted. -Peace’ isn’t one of your strengths. Get to the point.”

He laughed again, a low rustle like the sound of canvas sliding over stone. “Is it not sufficient that I am able to enter Andelain? Must I refrain from the

enjoyment of loveliness because Kastenessen and the mere-son and your perished love’s scion cannot share my pleasure?”

Linden started to reply, then stopped herself. Roger was blocked from Andelain? And Esmer? She had hoped for that, but Esmer had not said so explicitly.

Then why did the Harrow hold back? He was in no danger of any kind. Why

did he taunt her instead of bargaining?

Implied threats scraped across her nerves. At that moment, however, her certainty was greater than her alarm. She was so close to her goal—

Apart from Stave and the Humbled, all of her companions were taut, apprehensive; braced for danger. In spite of their concerns, she forced herself to relax her shoulders and breathe more slowly.

All right,” she said as if she had become calm. “I’m confused. I know why you’re here. What I don’t know is how. Why didn’t the Wraiths stop you? Or the krill? If they can forbid Kastenessen, how did you get in?”

The Harrow did not answer. His emanations suggested that he was not paying attention.

Linden thought that she heard a distant sound which did not belong to evening

in Andelain. But it was too elusive to be identified; and then it was gone.

“Mayhap, Chosen,” Stave offered, “he was not prevented because he is not a being of power. His theurgy is that of knowledge. It does not reside within him.”

Even Longwrath was possessed by a kind of magic: the ability to slough off his shackles whenever he wished.

Linden felt the Harrow’s gaze return. “Lady, I have promised my companionship, and the word of any Insequent is holy. Lacking such fidelity, knowledge erodes itself. I have striven too long, and have learned too much, to be made trivial by unfaith. Therefore I am here. No other justification is required.”

He still seemed to be mocking her.

Goaded by what he had done to the

Mandoubt, she said angrily, “And you think that just showing up occasionally makes you honest?” But then she caught herself. “No, forget that. I don’t care how you justify yourself. Tell me something else. I want to understand this.

“Anele has power. Why didn’t the Wraiths refuse him?”

Was it possible that the Wraiths had allowed the Harrow to enter Andelain

because he did not serve Despite?

Something that she could not define seemed to snag his notice. It was not birdsong or breeze or the soughing of the Soulsease, although it resembled those sounds. Still she felt his posture shift; felt him probe the twilight behind her. Again he did not answer.

Stave appeared to shrug. “The old man desires no harm. And his power is that of Andelain. Here he was transformed

in his mother’s womb, and given birth.”

“Then what about Longwrath?” Linden insisted, aiming her questions at the Harrow in spite of his inattention. “Is he possessed?” She did not think so. If a Raver-or some similar entity-ruled him, she would have sensed its presence. But she wanted to be sure. “Did the Wraiths stop him just because he’s trying to kill me?”

The Insequent faced her. “I would do

so in their place.” His tone continued to jeer at her, but his manner implied boredom or distraction. “Have I not said that your might becomes you? Others may desire your death. I do not.

“However, concerning this Giant who craves your blood-“

He paused as though he expected an interruption. But Linden waited, and her companions were silent. After a moment, he resumed.

“His blade holds some interest. It was forged at a time millennia past, when Kasreyn of the Gyre feared the Sandgorgons, having not yet devised their Doom. He hungered for a weapon puissant to slay those feral beasts. Therefore he wrought the flamberge, aided by the croyel. It was fearsome in the hands of a knowing wielder. Yet its purpose ended when the Sandgorgons were bound to their Doom. Deprived of use, its theurgy fades.”

Staring, Linden asked. “Is that what attracted the Wraiths? His sword?”

“Lady,” replied the Harrow sardonically, “I have said that his blade holds some interest. It does not fascinate me. And the Wraiths are of no consequence. They merely articulate the might of Loric’s krill. Born of Andelain, they nurture its beauty. Far greater beings walk the Hills, among them one of vast arrogance and self-worship.”

She shook her head, trying to rid herself an innominate whisper. Far greater beings-Was he referring to the Dead?

Stubbornly she returned to her essential question. “I know what you want. You tried to force me, but you failed. So now I’m supposed to need your help.”
am able to convey you to your son. “That way, you can ‘demand recompense.’ All right. Let’s get on with it. Isn’t it time for you to offer me ap>

bargain? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“It is,” he replied. “and it is not. For the present, it would be bootless to barter. One comes who will preclude my desires without qualm. I do not relish the indignity of being thwarted. I will await a more congenial opportunity to speak of your son.”

Linden scowled. Hints of sound became more persistent, in spite of her efforts to dismiss them. She could

almost—

An instant later, she realized that she was hearing the delicate music of bells or chimes: a soft ringing, at once beautiful and imprecise, as allusive as the scent of an exotic perfume. She nearly gasped as she recognized the tones. She knew them well.

Instinctively dismayed, she wheeled Hyn away from the Harrow.

“Linden?” Liand asked in surprise. Stave and the Humbled looked around, alert for danger. Muttering Giantish oaths, the Swordmainnir did the same.

They could not discern what Linden heard: she knew that. Long ago, this same chiming had filled her with turmoil and confusion-and none of her companions had been aware of it, not Covenant, not the Giants of the Search, not even the Haruchai.

Behind her, the Harrow said with rich sarcasm, “Be at peace, lady. Your concern is needless. No powers will contend in this place.”

Linden ignored him; ignored her friends. At once alarmed and angry, she watched a portion of Andelain’s dusk concatenate and flow as if the soul of the Hills were taking form.

Adorned with the tang and piquancy of tuned bells, a woman stepped out of

the twilight and became herself.

She was tall and supple, lovely and lucent; bright with hues that glowed like the light of gems. Her raiment may have been sendaline, or it may have been composed of diamonds and rubies, its glitter and incarnadine woven together by the illimitable magic of dreams. The regal luster of her hair seemed more precious than jewels: it shone like her ornate cymar and her sovereign eyes; like a sea entranced by

the moon. Her chosen flesh spread gleams that caused or resembled her chiming. When she moved, every line and curve was limned in exaltation.

And in her gaze and her mien, an imperious disdain struggled against pleading and sorrow.

Linden knew her. She was Infelice. In some sense which Linden had never understood, she was the leader or spokeswoman or potentate of the

Elohim. Among her people, she embodied what they called the Würd of the Earth,” although in their mellifluous voices “Würd” might have been “Wyrd” or “Word” or “Weird.”

Her simple presence commanded humility: it urged abasement. In spite of Hyn’s unflinching calm, Linden felt a blind impulse to kneel, abashed, before Infelice.

Her reaction was echoed by Liand and

the Ramen. Their faces reflected Infelice’s radiance. Even Mahrtiir was stricken with awe and chagrin. Scowling, Anele refused to turn toward her. And the Giants, who had been acquainted with the Elohim for millennia, scrambled to put away their weapons and bow deeply. Only the Haruchai showed no reaction—the Haruchai and the Harrow.

Thousands of years ago, the uncompromising dedication of Stave’s

ancestors had offended the Elohim. More recently, Linden had learned from the Theomach that his people resented the hauteur and power of the Elohim. The Vizard had tried to encourage Jeremiah to imprison them.

In the Elohimfest where Linden had first seen Infelice, her people had betrayed Covenant because they distrusted his possession of white gold. They had believed that Linden should wield wild magic. Even then, they had

been certain that Covenant’s efforts to defeat Lord Foul would ultimately fail.

Facing Infelice, Linden feared suddenly that her straits, and the Land’s, demonstrated that the Elohim had been right all along. The Despiser’s repeated return to strength demeaned Covenant’s victories. They might as well have been failures.

Infelice did not walk on the grass. Instead she moved through the air at

the height of the Giants. She may have wished to look down on Linden and the Harrow.

Her voice wore a penumbra of bells as she said, “The Insequent speaks sooth, Wildwielder.” Around her, night thickened over the Hills and the Soulsease as if her appearance absorbed the last of the light. “No powers will contend in sacred Andelain. Conscious of his littleness, and embittered, he faults us for arrogance

and self-worship. Yet he declines to acknowledge that the quality which he deplores, the certainty that we are equal to all things, preserves his petty machinations as well as his life. Our unconcern spares smaller beings. Were we less than we are, we would have taken umbrage in an earlier age and extinguished the Insequent for their meddlesomeness.”