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

who have elected to serve you will abide the outcome of your choices, and call ourselves fortunate to do so.”
    I seek a tale which will remain in the memories of the Ramen when my life
    has ended.
    Under other circumstances, Linden might have been moved by his declaration. But she was too full of doubt, of thwarted joy and unexplained bereavement. Instead of thanking him, she said gruffly, “It isn’t like that. I’m not going to oppose him.” Them. “I can’t. He’s Thomas Covenant.
    “I just don’t understand.”
    Then she looked away; quickened her pace without realizing it. Her impatience for the cleansing embrace of Glimmermere was growing. And her dilemma ran deeper than the Manethrall seemed to grasp.
    If both Covenant and Jeremiah were here—and they indeed had something wrong with them—she could imagine conditions under which she might be forced to choose between them. To fight for one at the expense of the
    other.
    If that happened, she would cling to Jeremiah, and let Thomas Covenant go. She had spent ten years learning to accept Covenant’s death—and eight of those years devoting herself to her son. Her first loyalty was to Jeremiah. Even if Covenant truly knew how to save the Land—
    The Mandoubt had warned her to Be cautious of love.
    God, she did not simply need answers. She needed to wash out her mind. Just be wary of me. Remember that I’m dead. She had been given too many warnings, and she comprehended none of them.
    Fortunately the high hills which cupped Glimmermere’s numinous waters were rising before her. She could not yet catch the scent of their magic: the mild spring breeze carried it past the hilltops. And the lake itself was hidden
    from sight and sound on all sides except directly southward, where the White River began its run toward Furl Falls. Nevertheless she knew where she was. She could not forget the last place where she and Covenant had known simple happiness.
    She wanted to run now, in spite of the ascent, but she forced herself to stop at the base of the slope. Turning to Mahrtiir, she asked, “You’ve been here already, haven’t you?’ He and his
    Cords had spent the previous afternoon and night among these hills with the Ranyhyn. “You’ve seen Glimmermere?”
    She expected a prompt affirmative; but the Manethrall replied brusquely, “Ringthane, I have not. By old tales, I know of the mystic waters. But my Cords and I came to these hills to care for the Ranyhyn—and also,” he admitted, “to escape the oppression of Revelstone and Masters. Our hearts
    were not fixed on tales.
    “However, the Ranyhyn parted from us when we had gained the open sky. Galloping and glad, they scattered to seek their own desires. Therefore we tended to our refreshment with aliantha and rest, awaiting your summons. We did not venture toward storied Glimmermere.”
    In spite of her haste, Linden felt a twist of regret on his behalf. “Why not’?”
    We are Ramen,” he said as if his reasons were self-evident. We serve the Ranyhyn. That suffices for us. We do not presume to intrude upon other mysteries. No Raman has beheld the tarn of the horserite, yet we feel neither regret nor loss. We are content to be who we are. Lacking any clear cause to approach Glimmermere, I deemed it unseemly to distance ourselves from Revelstone and your uncertain plight.”
    She sighed. Now she understood the
    blind distress of Mahrtiir and his Cords when she had met them in the Close. But she had scant regard to spare for the Manethrall’s strict pride. Her own needs were too great.
    All right,” she murmured. “Don’t worry about it.
    “I’m going on ahead. I want you to stay here. I need to be alone for a while. If the Masters change their minds—if the Humbled decide that they have to know
    what I’m doing—try to warn me.” Glimmermere’s potency might muffle her perception of anything else. “When I come back, we’ll talk about this again.
    “I think that you’ll want to see the lake