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Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
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venom. Blackness crowded the night, dimming the lanterns around her. Power—she wanted power. Her lungs shared his shuddering. She felt in her own chest the corrosion which gnawed at his heart, making the muscle flaccid, the beat limp. Her temples began to ache.
He was already a wasteland, and his illness and power ravaged her. She could hardly hold back the horror pounding at the back of her thoughts, hardly ignore the self-protective impetus to abandon this mad doom. Yet she went on creeping through him, studying the venom for a chance to spring at his mind.
Suddenly a convulsion knotted him. Her shared reactions knocked her to the deck. Amid the roil of his delirium, she felt him surging toward power. She was so open to him that any blast would sear through her like a firestorm.
Desperation galvanized her resolve. Discarding stealth, she hurled her senses at his head, tried to dive into his brain.
For an instant, she was caught in the throes of wild magic as he thrashed toward an explosion. Images whirled insanely into her: the destruction of the Staff of Law; men and women being bled like cattle to feed the Banefire; Lena and rape; the two-fisted knife-blow with which he had slain a man she did not know; the slashing of his wrists. And power—white fire which crashed through the Clave, turned Santonin and the Stonemight to tinder, went reaving among the Riders to garner a harvest of blood.
Power
. She could not control him. He shredded her efforts as if her entire being and will were made of brittle old leaves. In his madness, he reacted to her presence as if she were a Raver.
She cried out to him. But the outrage of his ring blew her away.
For a time, she lay buffeted by gusts of midnight. They echoed in her—men and women shed like cattle, guilt and delirium, wild magic made black by venom. Her whole body burned with the force of his blast. She wanted to scream, but could not master the spasms which convulsed her lungs.
But gradually the violence receded until it was contained within her head; and the dark began to take shape around her. She was sitting half upright, supported by Call’s arms. Vaguely she saw the First, Honninscrave, and Pitchwife crouched before her. A lantern revealed the tight concern in their faces.
When she fought her gaze into focus on the Giants, Honninscrave breathed in relief, “Stone and Sea!” Pitchwife chortled, “By the Powerthat remains, Chosen! You are hardy. A lesser blast broke Sevinhand Anchormaster’s arm in two places.”
He knew it was me, Linden answered, unaware of her silence. He didn’t let it kill me.
“The fault is mine,” said the First grimly. “I compelled you to this risk. Take no blame upon yourself. Now nothing lies within our power to aid him.”
Linden’s mouth groped to form words. “Blame—?”
“He has put himself beyond our reach. For life or death, we are helpless now.”
Put—? Linden grappled with the surrounding night to look toward Covenant. The First nodded at Honninscrave. He moved aside, unblocking Linden’s view.
When she saw Covenant, she almost wailed aloud.
He lay clenched and rigid, as though he would never move again, with his arms locked at his sides and need like a rictus on his lips. But he was barely visible through the sheath of wild magic which encased him. Shimmering argent covered him as completely as a caul.
Within his cocoon, his chest still struggled for breath, heart still beat weakly. The venom went on swelling his right arm, went on gnawing at his life. But she did not need any other eyes to tell her that nothing known on Starfare’s Gem could breach this new defense. His caul was as indefeasible as leprosy.
This was his delirious response to her attempted possession. Because she had tried to take hold of his mind, he had put himself beyond all succor. He would not have been less accessible if he had withdrawn to another world altogether.
FOUR: The
Nicor
of the Deep
Helplessly Linden watched herself
He was already a wasteland, and his illness and power ravaged her. She could hardly hold back the horror pounding at the back of her thoughts, hardly ignore the self-protective impetus to abandon this mad doom. Yet she went on creeping through him, studying the venom for a chance to spring at his mind.
Suddenly a convulsion knotted him. Her shared reactions knocked her to the deck. Amid the roil of his delirium, she felt him surging toward power. She was so open to him that any blast would sear through her like a firestorm.
Desperation galvanized her resolve. Discarding stealth, she hurled her senses at his head, tried to dive into his brain.
For an instant, she was caught in the throes of wild magic as he thrashed toward an explosion. Images whirled insanely into her: the destruction of the Staff of Law; men and women being bled like cattle to feed the Banefire; Lena and rape; the two-fisted knife-blow with which he had slain a man she did not know; the slashing of his wrists. And power—white fire which crashed through the Clave, turned Santonin and the Stonemight to tinder, went reaving among the Riders to garner a harvest of blood.
Power
. She could not control him. He shredded her efforts as if her entire being and will were made of brittle old leaves. In his madness, he reacted to her presence as if she were a Raver.
She cried out to him. But the outrage of his ring blew her away.
For a time, she lay buffeted by gusts of midnight. They echoed in her—men and women shed like cattle, guilt and delirium, wild magic made black by venom. Her whole body burned with the force of his blast. She wanted to scream, but could not master the spasms which convulsed her lungs.
But gradually the violence receded until it was contained within her head; and the dark began to take shape around her. She was sitting half upright, supported by Call’s arms. Vaguely she saw the First, Honninscrave, and Pitchwife crouched before her. A lantern revealed the tight concern in their faces.
When she fought her gaze into focus on the Giants, Honninscrave breathed in relief, “Stone and Sea!” Pitchwife chortled, “By the Powerthat remains, Chosen! You are hardy. A lesser blast broke Sevinhand Anchormaster’s arm in two places.”
He knew it was me, Linden answered, unaware of her silence. He didn’t let it kill me.
“The fault is mine,” said the First grimly. “I compelled you to this risk. Take no blame upon yourself. Now nothing lies within our power to aid him.”
Linden’s mouth groped to form words. “Blame—?”
“He has put himself beyond our reach. For life or death, we are helpless now.”
Put—? Linden grappled with the surrounding night to look toward Covenant. The First nodded at Honninscrave. He moved aside, unblocking Linden’s view.
When she saw Covenant, she almost wailed aloud.
He lay clenched and rigid, as though he would never move again, with his arms locked at his sides and need like a rictus on his lips. But he was barely visible through the sheath of wild magic which encased him. Shimmering argent covered him as completely as a caul.
Within his cocoon, his chest still struggled for breath, heart still beat weakly. The venom went on swelling his right arm, went on gnawing at his life. But she did not need any other eyes to tell her that nothing known on Starfare’s Gem could breach this new defense. His caul was as indefeasible as leprosy.
This was his delirious response to her attempted possession. Because she had tried to take hold of his mind, he had put himself beyond all succor. He would not have been less accessible if he had withdrawn to another world altogether.
FOUR: The
Nicor
of the Deep
Helplessly Linden watched herself
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