Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (21 page)

she caught brief hints and glimpses, as elusive as phosphenes, of the dire emerald which emanated from the II!earth Stone. That evil was muffled, muted; banked like embers in ash. But she knew it intimately and could not be mistaken.

Yet of the caesure which the Vile-spawn used to reach the II!earth Stone, she saw no sign.

To her taut nerves, the confusion and

uncertainty of the monsters seemed as loud as the blaring of battle-horns. But as she studied what she felt and heard and tasted-seeking, seeking-she began to think that their display of bewilderment was too loud. Surely if such lorewise creatures were truly baffled, chary of destruction, their attention would resemble hers? They would search actively for comprehension and discernment. Yet they did not. Rather their behavior was like the wailing of confounded children:

thoughtless; apparently incapable of thought.

Galvanized by a small jolt of excitement, Linden pushed her perceptions further, deeper. As she did so, she became certain that the Demondim were putting on a show of confusion, that their obvious disturbance was a ruse. It was one of the means by which they concealed their doorway to the II!earth Stone.

According to Covenant, he had put a crimp in their reality. I made us look like bait. But Linden was no longer convinced that the Vile-spawn feared an ambush. They had some other reason for withholding their attack.

For a time, uncertainty eroded her concentration, and her sense of the horde became blurred, indefinite; as vague and visceral as the wellsprings of nightmares. Instead of continuing to search for some glimpse of the

caesure, she felt Kevin’s Dirt overhead, high among the clouds. Independent of wind and weather, it spread a smear of doubt across her health-sense; numbed her tactile connection to the Land’s true life.

If Covenant had lied

Mahrtiir had assured her that Kevin’s Dirt could not blind her while the effects of her immersion in Glimmermere lingered. Stave had

implied that he held the same belief. Nevertheless she seemed to grow weaker by the moment, losing focus; drifting out of tune with the recursive emanations of the horde. She would never be able to identify the Fall unless she awakened the fire of Law to sharpen her perceptions.

Two days ago, the Masters had been able to descry the caesure’s presence because the Demondim had not yet adopted their tactics of concealment. If

she had been aware then of any Fall other than her own-and if she had been stronger—

She had missed that opportunity. It would not come again.

Surely it was Covenant who had told her that she needed the Staff of Law?

Yet any premature use of Earthpower would trigger the defenses and virulence of her foes.

Trust yourself. You’re the only one who can do this.

Her time with Thomas Covenant long ago had taught her to ignore the dictates of panic.

All right, she told herself. All right. So she could not guess how the Demondim had decided on their present stratagems. So what? She had come to the rim of Revelstone to attempt a kind of surgery; and surgery

demanded attention to what was immediately in front of her. The underlying motivations of the monsters were irrelevant. At this moment, under these circumstances, Kastenessen’s and even Covenant’s designs were irrelevant. Her task was simply and solely to extirpate the cancer of the horde’s access to the II!earth Stone. For the surgeon in her, nothing else mattered.

With assiduous care, Linden Avery the

Chosen reclaimed her focus on the manipulative masque of the Demondim.

She had spotted quick instances of the Stone’s green and lambent evil earlier: she saw more of them now. But they were widely scattered throughout the horde; brief as single raindrops; immediately absorbed. And they were in constant motion, glinting like fragments of lightning reflected on storm-wracked seas. When she had

studied them for a time, she saw that they moved like the whirling migraine miasma of a caesure.

Then she understood why she could not discern the Fall itself. Certainly the Demondim concealed it with every resource at their command. Behind their feigned confusion, they seethed with conflicting energies and currents, seeking to disguise the source of their might. But still they exerted that might, using it to obscure itself. Each glimpse

and flicker of the II!earth Stone was so immediate, immanent, and compelling that it masked the disruption of time which made it possible.

Linden understood-but the

understanding did not help her. Now that she had recognized what was happening, she could focus her health-sense past the threat inherent in each individual glint of emerald; and when she did so, she saw hints of time’s enabling distortion, the swirl of

instants which severed the millennia between the horde and the Stone. But those hints were too brief and unpredictable. Their chaotic evanescence obscured them. They were like hemorrhaging blood vessels in surgery: they prevented her from seeing the precise place where her scalpel and sutures were needed.

There she knew the truth. The task that she had chosen for herself was impossible. She was fundamentally

inadequate to it. The tactics of the Demondim were too alien for her human mind to encompass: she could not find her way through the complex chicanery and vehemence of the monsters. She would not be able to unmake the caesure unless she found a way to grasp what all of the Demondim were thinking and doing at every moment.

Therefore

Groaning inwardly, she retreated a little way so that she could rest her forehead on the wet grass. She wanted to console herself with the sensation of its fecund health, its fragile and tenacious grip on the aged soil of the plateau; its delicate demonstration of Earthpower. Even the chill of the rain contradicted in some fashion the hurtful machinations of the Demondim, the savage emerald of the Stone, the quintessential wrong of the caesure; the impossibility of her task. Rain was

appropriate; condign. It fell because the earth required its natural sustenance. Such things belonged to the organic health of the world. They deserved to be preserved.

She could not cut the caesure away as she had intended. Therefore she would have to approach the problem in a less surgical-and far more hazardous-manner. She would have to risk a direct assault on the monsters, hoping that they would strike back with the

force of the II!earth Stone. Then, during the imponderable interval between the instant of their counterattack and the moment when she was incinerated, she would have to locate the horde’s now-unveiled Fall; locate and extinguish it. If she survived long enough-She had no reason to believe that she could succeed. The challenge would be both swift and overwhelming. And if she effaced the caesure, she would be

no closer to rescuing Jeremiah or relieving the Land’s other perils. If she failed, she might not live long enough to see Revelstone destroyed because of her.

In her son’s name, she had twice risked absolute ruin. But now the question of his survival had become far more complex. In spite of the fact that he remained Lord Foul’s prisoner, he was here. He had regained his mind. And Covenant, whose every word

disturbed her, had averred that his own plans would free Jeremiah at last—

Covenant was concerned that an assault by the horde might prevent him from carrying out his designs. If she confronted the Demondim directly, she might do more than cause a catastrophe for the Land: she might cost her son his only real chance to live.

And yet-and yet

The Demondim were here. The power of the II!earth Stone was here. Kastenessen and the skurj were already at work, seeking the

destruction of the Land. And somewhere the Worm of the World’s End awaited wakening. How could she turn her back on any immediate threat when she did not understand Covenant, and the Masters had no effective defense?

Trapped in her dilemma, she was

conscious of nothing except the ravening powers of the horde and the extremity of her hesitation. She did not feel the rain falling on her back or the dampness of the grass. And she did not sense Stave’s approach. Until he said. “Attend, Chosen,” she had forgotten that she was not alone.

He had said those exact words twice before, both times in warning-and both because either Esmer or the urŹviles had taken her by surprise.

Dragging herself up from the grass, she braced her doubts on the Staff of Law and climbed to her feet.

As if without transition, Liand reached her side and took hold of her arm so that she would not stumble or fall as she turned to find herself peering dumbly into the black face of the urŹviles’ loremaster.

The creature’s nostrils gaped, scenting her through the rain. Behind the

storm-clouds, dawn had reached the Upper Land, and the sun drove a dim illumination into the dark; just enough light to reveal the dire shape of the loremaster. Now that she was aware of the creature, she felt rain spatter against its obsidian flesh, run down its torso and limbs-and hiss into steam as droplets struck the blade of molten iron gripped in its fist.

Behind the larger creature stood a packed wedge of Demondim-spawn, as

black as ebony and midnight, and as ominous. Even the Waynhim scattered among them seemed as dark as demons. As far as she could tell, those few creatures that had accompanied her here had joined the larger force which Esmer had delivered beside Glimmermere. And they all seemed to be muttering imprecations as they crowded close to each other and Linden, aiming their combined might through the loremaster and its hot blade.

When it smelled her attention, the loremaster lifted its free hand and held its ruddy knife over its palm, apparently offering to cut itself on her behalf.

This same creature had behaved in the same fashion when she was preparing herself for her first experience of a caesure; when she had been sick with fear and the aftereffects of the horserite. At that time, a much smaller wedge of ur-viles had healed her, giving her the strength to find her way

through Joan’s madness; to reach the Land’s past and the Staff of Law.

Now the loremaster appeared to be making a similar offer—

Yesterday Esmer had said to her,
have enabled their presence here, and they have accepted it, so that they may serve you. They will ward you, and this place—Revelstone-with more fidelity than the Haruchai, who have no hearts.p>

Covenant had jeered at Esmer’s assertion. He had warned her that the manacles of the ur-viles were intended for him. They’ve been Foul’s servants ever since they met him. And she had her own reasons for wondering what secret purpose lay behind the assistance of the ur-viles. Esmer’s involvement cast doubt in all directions.

“Linden”-the rain muffled Liand’s voice-“your distress is plain. You fear that you will fail. But here is aid. Few of

these creatures are those that have served you with both lore and valor. Yet those ur-viles are here, and the Waynhim with them. It may be that they will strengthen you to succeed.”

He gave his faith too easily-Covenant would have mocked him for it.

Out of the dim dawn, Mahrtiir added, “The Ramen have long known some few of these ur-viles. They have acted for our benefit. And they have succored

Anele.”

Stave said nothing. He had felt Esmer’s fury and might therefore suspect the motives of the ur-viles.

When she did not respond, the Stonedownor turned to Handir. “You speak for the Masters,” he said more strongly. “What is your word now? I have learned that in their time your kind fought long and bitterly against such creatures. Also the Unbeliever

desires the Chosen to desist. Will you permit her to be aided now’?”

For a long moment, Linden heard nothing except the harsh invocations-or imprecations-of the Demondim-spawn. Then Handir replied dispassionately, “From Stave, we have received one account of these creatures, and from the ur-Lord, another. We cannot discern the sooth of such matters. Yet here we need make no determination. Waynhim now

stand among the ur-viles. In the name of their ancient service to the Land, we honor the Waynhim as we do the Ranyhyn. While they participate in the actions of these ur-viles, we will not hinder them.”

Covenant had discounted the Waynhim as though their long devotion meant nothing.

Still the loremaster extended its open palm; poised its blade to shed its own

blood.

Trust yourself.

Until now, she had accomplished almost nothing that had not been made possible by the ur-viles-and the Waynhim.

Holding her breath, Linden opened her hand and proffered it to the loremaster.

Swift as a striking snake, as if it feared

that she might change her mind, the creature flicked at her with its eldritch dagger, slicing a quick line of blood across the base of her thumb. Then the loremaster cut itself and reached out to clasp her hand so that its acrid blood mingled with hers.

Involuntarily all of her muscles

clenched, anticipating a rush of strength and exaltation that would lift her entirely out of herself; elevate her doubts to certainty and power.

In the Verge of Wandering, the loremaster’s ichor had changed her, transcending her sickness and dread; her sheer mortality. It transformed her again now-but in an entirely different way. The wedge in front of her, more than a hundred creatures all chanting together, had called a new lore to her aid; had given her a new power. Instead of strength like the charging of Ranyhyn, she felt an almost metaphysical alteration, at once keener and more subtle than simple health

and force and possibility. The creatures had not made her stronger: they had augmented her health-sense, increasing its range and discernment almost beyond comprehension.

Now she could have pierced the closed hearts of the Masters, if she had wished to do so. Hell, she could have possessed any one of them-Or she could have searched out the mysteries locked within the Demondim-spawn themselves. They had given her the

power to lay bare the complex implications of their Weird. Or she might have been able to discern the causes of Covenant’s strangeness, and Jeremiah’s. Certainly she could have identified the nature of her son’s unforeseen power—