Fatal Revenant by Stephen R. Donaldson Page A

as white gold itself?
    And Jeremiah had not simply recovered his mind: he appeared to have acquired the knowledge and understanding of a fifteen-year-old boy, even though he had been effectively absent from himself for ten of those years. That should have been enough for her. It was more, far more, than she could have hoped for if she had rescued him with her own strength and determination; her own love.
    But he and Covenant had denied her. Her son had gained power—and had used it to repel her. They kept their distance even though every particle of her heart and soul craved to hold them in her arms and never let them go. And they claimed that they had good reason for doing so. Instead of relief, joy, or desire—the food for which her soul hungered—she felt only an unutterable loss.
    Don’t touch him! Don’t touch either of us!
    Faced with Esmer’s surprises and obfuscations, she had failed to ask the right questions; to make him tell her why Covenant and her son were so changed. Now she had no choice except to wrest understanding from Covenant himself. Or from Jeremiah. Somehow.
    Keep her away from us until I’m ready .
    Her heart was full of pain, in spite of Glimmermere’s healing, as she turned at last to ascend the hillside toward Revelstone. How had the man whom she had loved here, in this very place, become a being who could not tolerate the affirmation of Law? And where had Jeremiah obtained the lore, the magic, or the need to reject her yearning embrace?
    She did not mean to wait until Covenant decided that he was ready . She had loved him and her son too long and too arduously to be treated as nothing more than a hindrance.
    But first she hoped to talk to the Mahdoubt. The older woman had been kind to Linden. She might be willing to say more about her strange insights. In any case, her replies could hardly be less revealing than Esmer’s—
    As Linden reached the crest of the hills which cupped and concealed Glimmermere, the southeastward stretch of the upland plateau opened before her. Distraught as she was, she might still have lingered there for a moment to drink in the spring-kissed landscape: the flowing green of the grass, the numinous blue of the jacarandas’ flowers, the yellow splash of blooms among the mimosas. But Manethrall Mahrtiir stood at the foot of slope below her, plainly watching for her return. And in the middle distance, she saw Stave’s solitary figure striding purposefully toward her. Their proximity drew her down the hillside to meet them.
    She wanted a moment alone with Mahrtiir before Stave came near enough to overhear her.
    The Manethrall studied her approach as though he believed—or feared—that she had been changed by Glimmermere. He must have noticed the sudden silence of the birds—She felt his sharp gaze on her, searching for indications that she was unharmed.
    He was unaware of what had transpired: she could see that. Both Esmer and the Demondim-spawn were able to thwart perception. And the bulk of the hill must have blocked the noises of her encounter with them. If Mahrtiir had felt their presence, he would have ignored her request for privacy.
    Yet it was clear that he retained enough discernment, in spite of Kevin’s Dirt, to recognize that some thing had happened to her or changed for her. As she neared him, he bowed deeply, as if he felt that he owed her a new homage. And when he raised his eyes again, his chagrin was unmistakable, in spite of his fierce nature.
    â€œRingthane—” he began awkwardly. “Again you have surpassed me. You are exalted—”
    â€œNo, Mahrtiir.” Linden hastened to forestall his wonder. She was too lost, and too needy, to bear it. “It isn’t me. It’s Glimmermere. That’s what you’re seeing.” She attempted an unsuccessful smile. “You don’t need to stay away from it. As soon as you touch the water, you’ll know what I mean.