Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant by Stephen R. Donaldson

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 something 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.
    “Ringthane-” he began awkwardly. “Again you have surpassed me. You are exalted-“
    “No, 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. It belongs to the Land. To everyone. You won’t feel like an intruder. And it cleans away Kevin’s Dirt.
    “I can’t use my Staff right now.” She frowned at the wood in frustration. “You know that. I can’t protect us from being blinded, any of us. But as long as we can go to Glimmermere-“
    When they knew the truth, Liand, Bhapa, and Pahni would be delighted. Anele, on the other hand-Linden sighed. He would avoid the lake strenuously. He feared anything that might threaten his self-imposed plight. And his defenses were strong. He would use every scrap of his inborn might to preserve the peculiar integrity of his madness.
    As Stave came closer, she promised the Manethrall quietly, “You’ll get your
    chance. I’ll make sure of it.”
    The Raman bowed again. “My thanks, Ringthane.” Wryly he added, “Doubtless you have observed that the pride of the Ramen runs hotly within me. I do not contain it well.”
    Hurrying to put the matter behind her, Linden said again, “Don’t worry about it. I respect your pride. It’s better than shame. And we have more important problems.”
    Mahrtiir nodded. He may have thought that he knew what she meant.
    A moment later, Stave reached the Manethrall’s side. He, too, bowed as if in recognition of some ineffable alteration, an elevation at once too subtle and too profound for Linden to acknowledge. “Chosen,” he said with his familiar flatness, “the waters of Glimmermere have served you well. You have been restored when none could have known that you had been
    diminished.”
    He had cleaned the blood from his face, but he still wore his spattered tunic and his untended bruises as if they were a reproach to the Masters. His single eye gave his concentration a prophetic cast, as if in losing half of his vision he had gained a supernal insight.
    Did he see her accurately? Had she in fact gleaned something sacramental
    from the lake? Something untainted by her encounter with Esmer’s ambiguous loyalties?
    She shrugged the question aside. It could not change her choices-or the risks that she meant to take.
    Without preamble, she replied, “I was just about to tell Mahrtiir that something happened after I-” She had no words adequate to the experience. “I wanted to talk