Fatal Revenant by Stephen R. Donaldson
“Actually, Dr. Avery,” Roger drawled, “I like this better. If you weren’t so damn determined to interfere, Foul and Kastenessen and I would already have everything we ever wanted. I suppose that ought to piss me off. But it doesn’t. Ever since I first met you, I’ve wanted to crush you. Now I can.”
If he had struck at her then, he might have slain her. She was lost and aghast, overwhelmed with rue: she could not have defended herself. White gold was a mystery to her, too complex and hidden to be approached in the EarthBlood’s presence. The resources of the Staff seemed to have passed beyond her reach.
But Roger held back. His desire to crush her entailed something more than mere death.
For her son’s sake, and the Land’s, Linden used that moment of life and breath to regain as much of herself as she could.
Vestiges of utter Earthpower lingered in her yet. They left incandescent suggestions in her veins. Her heart throbbed with remembered might. She could still think, and had already begun to tremble with fury.
Leaning her weight on the Staff, gripping it with both hands while she knelt, she panted as though she were nearly prostrate. “That’s why you didn’t want me to touch you. You weren’t afraid of my power. You knew that if I touched you, I would feel the truth.” Roger and the croyel had feared her health-sense. “Your disguise wouldn’t hold.”
Roger glanced at Jeremiah’s master; gave a harsh burst of laughter. Then he faced Linden again with flame frothing from his fist. “Of course,” he jeered. “I’m just astonished it took you so long to figure it out.”
She ignored his scorn: it could not hurt her now. “And it’s why you didn’t want me to summon the Ranyhyn. They would have recognized you right away.”
“Of course,” he repeated, mocking her. “Go on. You can’t stop there.”
Jeremiah did not speak. He did not react in any way. He could not. The croyel ruled him, and the creature no longer needed either words or gestures. It had stolen into her son’s mind in order to find the memories and knowledge which would give substance to its charade, and to Roger Covenant’s. Now it was done with pretense.
Linden trembled, scrambling inwardly, and grew stronger. “It’s also why you didn’t want me to go Andelain. You couldn’t fool the Dead. They would have exposed you.”
“Well, sure.” Roger shrugged. “If that’s the best you can do. But I have to admit, I’m disappointed. You’re supposed to be a doctor. Keen mind. Trained intellect. I expected more.”
Think, Linden commanded herself. If she could understand her straits, she might find her way through them.
Clearly Esmer had advised her well. And then he had counterbalanced his aid by opposing the ur-viles when they had tried to prevent Roger and the croyel from snatching her out of her natural present.
“Tell me,” she demanded hoarsely. “You like to gloat.” He coveted her dismay. “What am I missing?”
Roger snorted another laugh. “For one thing, you brought this on yourself. All of it. If you hadn’t gone to get that damn Staff—and if you hadn’t told Esmer you wanted to visit Andelain—nothing that’s happened since would have been necessary. You forced us to intervene. Once you had the Staff, we had to keep you out of Andelain.”
Linden sensed as much as thought that he was attempting to mislead her again. He was not closed to her now. Her senses discerned subtleties of truth and falsehood. He—or Lord Foul—had wished to preclude her from Andelain: she believed that. But her Staff was not his real concern. If he and Jeremiah had not ridden into Revelstone, they would have been in no danger from her.
Roger and his masters or guides—the Despiser and Kastenessen—had a deeper reason for seeking to ensure that she did not approach the Andelainian Hills.
Trying to probe further, Linden asked, “You said ‘for one thing.’ What else have I missed?”
Again Roger appeared to consult his companion. Then he replied in a voice full of scorn. “Why not? You obviously think I’m stupid. You want to keep me talking so you’ll have time to recover. But you really don’t understand. You don’t understand anything. I can’t lose here.
“I’m going to answer your questions for a while because I want you to know what despair feels like.”
Long ago, Thomas Covenant had said to her, There’s only one way to hurt a man who’s lost everything. Give him back something broken. Roger and Lord Foul had done that to her now. But Roger’s father had not allowed his pain to rule him.
“Go on,” she said more firmly. “I’m listening.”
Roger flicked his lurid hand; sent an arc of fire like a streak of molten stone across the ceiling of the cave. But he did not direct his force at her. A grin of grim delight showed his teeth as he replied. “For another, there was always the chance you might actually give me my ring. That would have saved all of us no end of trouble.
“I tried to talk you into it. The croyel thinks I should have tried harder. But I knew you wouldn’t do it. You love power too much.”
Linden heard him clearly. He meant that in her place he would not have surrendered his father’s ring. He did not comprehend her at all.
“That’s not an answer,” she retorted. As the transcendence of her Command faded, she recovered more and more of herself. “Why did you care if I went to Andelain? Tell the truth for once. You’re part Elohim. And the croyel—” The creature had raped her son’s trapped mind in order to manipulate her. “They seem like they’re capable of anything. If the two of you aren’t strong enough to destroy the Arch of Time on your own, why didn’t you just come here? What did you need me for? What was so important about keeping me away from Andelain?”
Jeremiah himself, the ensnared boy whom Linden had adopted and loved, did not react. He could not. He wandered a chartless wilderness of loneliness and abandonment while the croyel clung like a tumor to his back. His disfocused gaze and his damp mouth promised only sorrow.
Nevertheless he struck without warning. Dropping his ruined racecar, he sprang at Linden. A reflection of ruddy fire flashed on his oaken dagger as he raised it high. Guided and compelled by the fulvous glare and sharp teeth of the croyel, he hammered his splinter of deadwood into the back of her right hand where it gripped the Staff.
He may have wanted to nail her hand to the long shaft; cripple her somehow. If so, he failed. The clean wood of the Staff was impervious to his stiletto. When it had pierced her hand, his sharp scrap of Garroting Deep was turned aside.
For a moment, however, the pain of her wound nearly unmade her. It bit into her nerves like fangs and acid. She scarcely felt the warm spurting of her blood as it streamed over her left hand and down the Staff; yet she might as well have been crucified. She would have lapsed into shock at once if the air of the cave had not filled her lungs with distilled Earthpower. But instead she cried out as though Jeremiah’s blow had ripped through the center of her chest. A brief rush of tears joined the pulsing flow of her blood.
Then, as suddenly as a crisis of the heart, she detached herself from the pain; distanced it as though it belonged to someone else. Dispassionately she surveyed the shard jutting through her hand. The confusion of her health-sense was gone: in chagrin and desperation, she had at last tuned her perceptions to the precise pitch and timbre of the EarthBlood’s atmosphere, and her eyes no longer required the protection of tears. She could see her injury distinctly. Apart from the pain, it was not serious: that was plain. Her son’s—no, the croyel’s—dagger had skidded between the bones. It had missed the larger arteries and veins. She would not lose dangerous amounts of blood. If she survived Roger’s and the croyel’s intentions, any untainted application of Earthpower would heal her.
But she could not unclose her fingers from the Staff. The wound paralyzed 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 attac
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 galvanized 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 Staff’s blaze. Swift as prescience, the croyel emitted a vehement wall which blocked and dispersed Linden’s blow.
Roger caught himself; roared with fury. Aiming his fist at her, he unleashed a scend of fire and lava. At the same time, the creature sent waves of force toward her like crashing breakers in a storm. Together he and the croyel strove to drive her back against the lode-face of the EarthBlood.
If she fell there, the Blood itself would incinerate her.
She responded with untarnished Earthpower and Law; threw pure flame against the corrupted theurgy of Kastenessen’s hand and the savage unnatural coercion of the croyel. Shouting her son’s name as though it were a war cry, she met the ferocity of her enemies with power that filled the depths of the mountain like daylight.
Yet Roger and his companion were no
The Staff bucked in Linden’s grasp. It seemed to burn. Its limitations were hers: it could not channel more force than her human blood and bone could summon or contain. She stumbled half a step toward the trough. Her flame no longer flooded the cave. The croyel’s barricade held it back. Crimson and sulfur tainted her sunfire as Roger’s eagerness probed into it; reached through it.
Abruptly the deadwood piercing her hand caught fire and burned away, searing the inside of her wound; sealing it. She was scourged backward again.
For an instant, she seemed to see herself falter and fail, see her flesh scorched like charcoal, see the Staff turn black as Roger’s heat devoured it. Then she rallied.
They have done this to my son.
With a wordless shout, she thrust the Staff behind her so that its end plunged into the trough of EarthBlood.
At once, fresh strength galvanized her. A torrent of Earthpower rushed through the Staff and became incandescence. Her conflagration spurned the stain of brimstone: it pounded heavily against the repulsion of the croyel. Light that should have blinded her and could not washed through the cave and along the tunnel as the brilliance of Law scaled higher; expanded until it appeared to transcend Melenkurion Skyweir’s constricting rock.
The wall emanating from Jeremiah’s enslaver receded. Eldritch dazzling effaced the croyel’s eyes: she could no longer see them, or they had been liquefied in the creature’s skull. Briefly Roger’s flail of scoria lost a portion of its virulence. Kastenessen’s might and pain contracted around Roger’s quivering fist.
But he seemed able to draw on limitless power as though he siphoned it from the magma of the Earth’s core. Even as Linden’s fire grew and grew, claiming more and more puissance from the mountain’s ichor, his ruddy heat swelled again. A furnace spilled from his hand. Heat like liquid granite drove back her bright flame.