Lord Foul's Bane

Eight: The Dawn of the Message

THE hard bones of the rock slowly brought Thomas Covenant out of dreams of close embraces. For a time, he drifted on the rising current of the dawn-surrounded on his ascetic, sufficient bed by the searching self-communion of the river, the fresh odours of day, the wheeling cries of birds as they sprang into the sky. While his self-awareness, returned, he felt at peace, harmonious with his context; and even the uncompromising hardness of the stone seemed apposite to him, a proper part of a whole morning.

His first recollections of the previous night were of orgasm, heartrending, easing release and satisfaction so precious that he would have been willing to coin his soul to make such things part of his real life. For a long moment of joy, he re-experienced that sensation. Then he remembered that to get it he had hurt Lena.

Lena!

He rolled over, sat up in the dawn. The sun had not yet risen above the mountains, but enough light reflected into the valley from the plains for him to see that she was gone.

She had left her fire burning in the sand up the ravine from him. He lurched to his feet, scanned the ravine and both banks of the Mithil for some sign of her-or, his imagination leaped, of Stonedownors seeking vengeance. His heart thudded; all those rock-strong people would not be interested in his explanations or apologies. He searched for evidence of pursuit like a fugitive.

But the dawn was as undisturbed as if it contained no people, no crimes or desires for punishment. Gradually, Covenant's panic receded. After a last look around, he began to prepare for whatever lay ahead of him.

He knew that he should get going at once, hurry along the river toward the relative safety of the plains. But he was a leper, and could not undertake solitary journeys lightly. He needed to organise himself.

He did nothing about Lena; he knew instinctively that he could not afford to think about her. He had violated her trust, violated the trust of the Stonedown; that was as close to his last night's rage as he could go. It was past, irrevocable-and illusory, like the dream itself. With an effort that made him tremble, he put it behind him. Almost by accident on Kevin's Watch, he had discovered the answer to all such insanity: keep moving, don't think about it, survive. That answer was even more necessary now. His “Berek” fear of the previous evening seemed relatively unimportant. His resemblance to a legendary hero was only a part of a dream, not a compulsory fact or demand. He put it behind him also. Deliberately, he gave himself a thorough scrutiny and VSE.

When he was sure that he had no hidden injuries, no dangerous purple spots, he moved out to the end of the promontory. He was still trembling. He needed more discipline, mortification; his hands shook as if they could not steady themselves without his usual shaving ritual. But the penknife in his pocket was inadequate for shaving. After a moment, he took a deep breath, gripped the edge of the rock, and dropped himself, clothes and all, into the river for a bath.

The current tugged at him seductively, urging him to float off under blue skies into a spring day. But the water was too cold; he could only stand the chill long enough to duck and thrash in the stream for a moment. Then he hauled himself onto the rock and stood up, blowing spray off his face. Water from his hair kept running into his eyes, blinding him momentarily to the fact that Atiaran stood on the sand by the graveling. She contemplated him with a grave, firm glance.

Covenant froze, dripping as if he had been caught in the middle of a flagrant act. For a moment, he and Atiaran measured each other across the sand and rock. When she started to speak, he cringed inwardly, expecting her to revile, denounce, hurl imprecations. But she only said, “Come to the graveling. You must dry yourself.”

In surprise, he scrutinized her tone with all the high alertness of his senses, but he could hear nothing in it except determination and quiet sadness. Suddenly he guessed that she did not know what had happened to her daughter.

Breathing deeply to control the labour of his heart, he moved forward and huddled down next to the graveling. His mind raced with improbable speculations to account for Atiaran's attitude, but he kept his face to the warmth and remained silent, hoping that she would say something to let him know where he stood with her.

Almost at once, she murmured, “I knew where to find you. Before I returned from speaking with the Circle of elders, Lena told Trell that you were here.”

She stopped, and Covenant forced himself to ask, “Did he see her?”

He knew that it was a suspicious question. But Atiaran answered simply, “No. She went to spend the night with a friend. She only called out her message as she passed our home.”

Then for several long moments Covenant sat still and voiceless, amazed by the implications of what Lena had done. Only called out! At first, his brain reeled with thoughts of relief. He was safe-temporarily, at least. With her reticence, Lena had purchased precious time for him. Clearly, the people of this Land were prepared to make sacrifices

After another moment, he understood that she had not made her sacrifice for him. He could not imagine that she cared for his personal safety. No, she chose to protect him because he was a Berek-figure, a bearer of messages to the Lords. She did not want his purpose to be waylaid by the retribution of the Stonedown. This was her contribution to the defence of the Land from Lord Foul the Grey Slayer.

It was a heroic contribution. In spite of his discipline, his fear, he sensed the violence Lena had done herself for the sake of his message. He seemed to see her huddling naked behind a rock in the foothills throughout that bleak night, shunning for the first time in her young life the open arms of her community bearing the pain and shame of her riven body alone so that he would not be required to answer for it. An unwanted memory of the blood on her loins writhed in him.

His shoulders bunched to strangle the thought. Through locked teeth, he breathed to himself, I've got to go to the Council.

When he had steadied himself, he asked grimly, “What did the elders say?”

“There was little for them to say,” she replied in a flat voice. "I told them what I know of you-and of the Land's peril. They agreed that I must guide you to Lord's Keep. For that purpose I have come to you now. See-“ she indicated two packs lying near her feet ”I am ready. Trell my husband has given me his blessing. It grieves me to go without giving my love to Lena my daughter, but time is urgent. You have not told me all your message, but I sense that from this day forward each delay is hazardous. The elders will give thought to the defence of the plains. We must go”

Covenant met her eyes, and this time he understood the sad determination in them. She was afraid, and did not believe that she would live to return to her family. He felt a sudden pity for her. Without fully comprehending what he said, he tried to reassure her. “Things aren't as bad as they might be. A Cavewight has found the Staff of Law, and I gather he doesn't really know how to use it. Somehow, the Lords have got to get it away from him.”

But his attempt miscarried. Atiaran stiffened and said, “Then the life of the Land is in our speed. Alas that we cannot go to the Ranyhyn for help. But the Ramen have little countenance for the affairs of the Land, and no Ranyhyn has been ridden, save by Lord or Bloodguard, since the age began. We must walk, Thomas Covenant, and Revelstone is three hundred long leagues distant. Is your clothing dry? We must be on our way.”

Covenant was ready; he had to get away from this place. He gathered himself to his feet and said, “Fine. Let's go.”

However, the look that Atiaran gave him as he stood held something unresolved. In a low voice as if she were mortifying herself, she said, “Do you trust me to guide you, Thomas Covenant? You do not know me. I failed in the Loresraat.”

Her tone seemed to imply not that she was undependable, but that he had the right to judge her. But he was in no position to judge anyone. “I trust you,” he rasped. “Why not? You said yourself-” He faltered, then forged ahead. “You said yourself that I come to save or damn the Land.”

“True,” she returned simply. “But you do not have the stink of a servant of the Grey Slayer. My heart tells me that it is the fate of the Land to put faith in you, for good or ill.”

“Then let's go.” He took the pack that Atiaran lifted toward him and shrugged his shoulders into the straps. But before she put on her own pack, she knelt to the graveling in the sand. Passing her hands over the fire-stones, she began a low humming-a soft tune that sounded ungainly in her mouth, as if she were unaccustomed to it-and under her waving gestures the yellow light faded. In a moment, the stones had lapsed into a pale, pebbly grey, as if she had lulled them to sleep, and their heat dissipated. When they were cold, she scooped them into their pot, covered it, and stored it in her pack.

The sight reminded Covenant of all the things he did not know about this dream. As Atiaran got to her feet, he said, “There's only one thing I need. I want you to talk to me-tell me all about the Loresraat and the Lords and everything I might be interested in.” Then because he could not give her the reason for his request, he concluded lamely, “It'll pass the time.”

With a quizzical glance at him, she settled her pack on her shoulders. “You are strange, Thomas Covenant. I think you are too eager to know my ignorance. But what I know I will tell you-though without your raiment and speech it would pass my belief to think you an utter stranger to the Land. Now come. There are treasure-berries aplenty along our way this morning. They will serve as breakfast. The food we carry must be kept for the chances of the road.”

Covenant nodded, and followed her as she began climbing out of the ravine. He was relieved to be moving again, and the distance passed quickly. Soon they were down by the river, approaching the bridge.

Atiaran strode straight onto the bridge, but when she reached the top of the span she stopped. A moment after Covenant joined her, she gestured north along the Mithil toward the distant plains. “I tell you openly, Thomas Covenant,” she said, "I do not mean to take a direct path to Lord's Keep. The Keep is west of north from us, three hundred leagues as the eye sees across the Centre Plains of the Land. There many people live, in Stonedown and Woodhelven, and it might chance that both road and help could be found to take us where we must go. But we could not hope for horses. They are rare in the Land, and few folk but those of Revelstone know them.

“It is in my heart that we may save time by journeying north, across the Mithil when it swings east, and so into the land of Andelain, where the fair Hills are the flower of all the beauties of the Earth. There we will reach the Soulsease River, and it may be that we will find a boat to carry us up that sweet stream, past the westland of Trothgard, where the promises of the Lords are kept, to great Revelstone itself, the Lord's Keep. All travellers are blessed by the currents of the Soulsease, and our journey will end sooner if we find a carrier there. But we must pass within fifty leagues of Mount Thunder-Gravin Threndor.” As she said the ancient name, a shiver seemed to run through her voice. “It is there or nowhere that the Staff of Law has been found, and I do not wish to go even as close as Andelain to the wrong wielder of such might.”

She paused for a moment, hesitating, then went on: "There would be rue unending if a corrupt Cavewight gained possession of the ring you bear-the evil ones are quick to unleash such forces as wild magic. And even were the Cavewight unable to use the ring, I fear that ur-viles still live under Mount Thunder. They are lore-wise creatures, and white gold would not surpass them.

“But time rides urgently on us, and we must save it where we may. And there is another reason for seeking the passage of Andelain at this time of year-if we hasten. But I should not speak of it. You will see it and rejoice, if no ill befall us on our way.”

She fixed her eyes on Covenant, turning all their inward strength on him, so that he felt, as he had the previous evening, that she was searching for his weaknesses. He feared that she would discover his night's work in his face, and he had to force himself to meet her gaze until she said, “Now tell me, Thomas Covenant. Will you go where I lead?”

Feeling both shamed and relieved, he answered, “Let's get on with it. I'm ready.”

“That is well.” She nodded, started again toward the east bank. But Covenant spent a moment looking down at the river. Its soft plaint sounded full of echoes, and they seemed to moan at him with serene irony, Does my impotence surprise you? A cloud of trouble darkened his face, but he clenched himself, rubbed his ring, and stalked away after Atiaran, leaving the Mithil to flow on its way like a stream of forgetfulness or a border of death.

As the sun climbed over the eastern mountains, Atiaran and Covenant were moving north, downstream along the river toward the open plains. At first, they travelled in silence. Covenant was occupied with short forays into the hills to his right, gathering aliantha. He found their tangy peach flavour as keenly delicious as before; a fine essence in their juice made hunger and taste into poignant sensations. He refrained from taking all the berries off any one bush he had to range away from Atiaran's sternly forward track often to get enough food to satisfy him-and he scattered the seeds faithfully, as Lena had taught him. Then he had to trot to catch up with Atiaran. In this way, he passed nearly a league, and when he finished eating, the valley was perceptibly broader. He made one last side trip-this time to the river for a drink-then hurried to take a position beside Atiaran.

Something in the set of her features seemed to ask him not to talk, so he disciplined himself to stillness with survival drills. Then he strove to regain the mechanical ticking stride which had carried him so far from Haven Farm. Atiaran appeared resigned to a trek of three hundred leagues, but he was not. He sensed that he would need all his leper's skills to hike for even a day without injuring himself. In the rhythm of his steps, he struggled to master the unruliness of his situation.

He knew that eventually he would have to explain his peculiar danger to Atiaran. He might need her help, at least her comprehension. But not yet-not yet. He did not have enough control.

But after a while, she changed direction, began angling away from the river up into the northeastern foothills. This close to the mountains, the hills were steep and involuted, and she seemed to be following no path. Behind her, Covenant scrambled up and staggered down the rocky, twisting slopes, though the natural lay of the land tried constantly to turn them westward. The sides of his neck started to ache from the weight of his pack, and twitches jumped like incipient cramps under his shoulder blades. Soon he was panting heavily, and muttering against the folly of Atiaran's choice of directions.

Toward midmorning, she stopped to rest on the downward curve of a high hill. She remained standing, but Covenant's muscles were trembling from the exertion, and he dropped to the ground beside her, breathing hard. When he had regained himself a little, he panted, “Why didn't we go around, north past these hills, then east? Save all this up and down.”

“Two reasons” she said shortly. “Ahead there is a long file north through the hills-easy walking so that we will save time. And again”-she paused while she looked around-“we may lose something. Since we left the bridge, there has been a fear in me that we are followed.”

“Followed?” Covenant jerked out. “Who?”

“I do not know. It may be that the spies of the Grey Slayer are already abroad. It is said that his highest servants, his Ravers, cannot die while he yet lives. They have no bodies of their own, and their spirits wander until they find living beings which they can master. Thus they appear as animals or humans, as chance allows, corrupting the life of the Land. But it is my hope that we will not be followed through these hills. Are you rested? We must go.”

After adjusting her robe under the straps of her pack, she set off again down the slope. A moment later, Covenant went groaning after her.

For the rest of the morning, he had to drive himself to persevere in the face of exhaustion. His legs grew numb with fatigue, and the weight on his back seemed to constrict his breathing so that he panted as if he were suffocating. He was not conditioned for such work; lurching unsteadily, he stumbled up and down the hills. Time and again, only his boots and tough trousers saved him from damage. But Atiaran moved ahead of him smoothly, with hardly a wasted motion or false step, and the sight of her drew him onward.

But finally she turned down into a long ravine that ran north as far as he could see, like a cut in the hills. A small stream flowed down the centre of the file, and they stopped beside it to drink, bathe their faces, and rest. This time, they both took off their packs and dropped to the ground. Groaning deeply, Covenant lay flat on his back with his eyes closed.

For a while he simply relaxed, listened to his own hoarse respiration until it softened and he could hear behind it the wind whistling softly. Then he opened his eyes to take in his surroundings.

He found himself looking up four thousand feet at Kevin's Watch.

The view was unexpected; he sat up as if to look at it more closely. The Watch was just east and south from him, and it leaned out into the sky from its cliff face like an accusing finger. At that distance, the stone looked black and fatal, and it seemed to hang over the file down which he and Atiaran would walk. It reminded him of the Despiser and darkness.

“Yes,” Atiaran said, “that is Kevin's Watch. There stood Kevin Landwaster, High Lord and wielder of the Staff, direct descendant of Berek Halfhand, in the last battle against the Grey Slayer. It is said that there he knew defeat, and mad grief. In the blackness which whelmed his heart he-the most powerful champion in all the ages of the Land-even he, High Lord Kevin, sworn Earthfriend, brought down the Desecration, the end of all things in the Land for many generations. It is not a good omen that you have been there.”

As she spoke, Covenant turned toward her, and saw that she was gazing, not up at the rock, but inward, as if she were considering how badly she would have failed in Kevin's place. Then, abruptly, she gathered herself and stood up. “But there is no help for it,” she said. “Our path lies under the shadow of the Watch for many leagues. Now we must go on.” When Covenant moaned, she commanded, “Come. We dare not go slowly, for fear that we will be too late at the end. Our way is easier now. And if it will help your steps, I will talk to you of the Land.”

Reaching for his pack, Covenant asked, “Are we still being followed?”

“I do not know. I have neither heard nor seen any sign. But my heart misgives me. I feel some wrong upon our path this day.”

Covenant pulled on his pack and staggered wincing to his feet. His heart misgave him also, for reasons of its own. Here under Kevin's Watch, the humming wind sounded like the thrum of distant vulture wings. Settling the pack straps on his raw shoulders, he bent under the weight, and went with Atiaran down the bottom of the file.

For the most part, the cut was straight and smooth-floored, though never more than fifteen feet-across. However, there was room beside the narrow stream for Atiaran and Covenant to walk together. As they travelled, pausing at every rare aliantha to pick and eat a few berries, Atiaran sketched in a few of the wide blanks in Covenant's knowledge of the Land.

“It is difficult to know how to speak of it,” she began. "Everything is part of everything, and each question which I can answer raises three more which I cannot. My lore is limited to what all learn quickly in their first years in the Loresraat. But I will tell you what I can.

“Berek Heartthew's son was Damelon Giantfriend, and his son was Loric Vilesilencer, who stemmed the corruption of the Demondim, rendering them impotent.” As she spoke, her voice took on a cadence that reminded Covenant of her singing. She did not recite dry facts; she narrated a tale that was of sovereign importance to her, to the Land. "And Kevin, whom we name Landwaster more in pity than in condemnation of his despair, was the son of Loric, and High Lord in his place when the Staff was passed on. For a thousand years, Kevin stood at the head of the Council, and he extended the Earthfriendship of the Lords beyond anything known before in the Land, and he was greatly honoured.

"In his early years, he was wise as well as mighty and knowledgeable. When he saw the first hints that the ancient shadow was alive, he looked far into the chances of the future, and what he saw gave him cause to fear. Therefore he gathered all his Lore into Seven Wards-

Seven Wards of ancient Lore

For Land's protection, wall and door-

and hid them, so that his knowledge would not pass from the Land even if he and the Old Lords fell.

“For many many long years the Land lived on in peace. But during that time, the Grey Slayer rose up in the guise of a friend. In some way, the eyes of Kevin were blinded, and he accepted his enemy as a friend and Lord. And for that reason, the Lords and all their works passed from the Earth.

“But when Kevin's betrayal had brought defeat and Desolation, and the Land had lain under the bane for many generations, and had begun to heal, it called out to the people who lived in hiding in the Wastes and the Northron Climbs. Slowly, they returned. As the years passed, and the homes and villages became secure, some folk travelled, exploring the Land in search of half-remembered legends. And when they finally braved Giant Woods, they came to the old land of Seareach, and found that the Giants, Rockbrothers of the people of the Land, had survived the Ritual of Desecration.

“There are many songs, old and new, praising the fealty of the Giants-with good reason. When the Giants learned that people had returned to the Land, they began a great journey, sojourning over all the Land to every new Stonedown and Woodhelven, teaching the tale of Kevin's defeat and renewing the old Rockbrotherhood. Then, taking with them those people who chose to come, the giants ended their journey at Revelstone, the ageless castle-city which they had riven out of the rock of the mountain for High Lord Damelon, as surety of the bond between them.

“At Revelstone, the Giants gave a gift to the gathered people. They revealed the First Ward, the fundamental store of the beginnings of Kevin's Lore. For he had trusted it to the Giants before the last battle. And the people accepted that Ward and consecrated themselves, swearing Earthfriendship and loyalty to the Power and beauty of the Land.

“One thing more they swore-Peace, a calmness of self to protect the Land from destructive emotions like those that maddened Kevin. For it was clear to all there gathered that power is a dreadful thing, and that the knowledge of power dims the seeing of the wise. When they beheld the First Ward, they feared a new Desecration. Therefore they swore to master the Lore, so that they might heal the Land-and to master themselves, so that they would not fall into the anger and despair which made Kevin his own worst foe.

“These oaths were carried back to all the people of the Land, and all the people swore. Then the few who were chosen at Revelstone for the great work took the First Ward to Kurash Plenethor, Stricken Stone, where the gravest damage of the last battle was done. They named the land Trothgard, as a token of their promise of healing, and there they founded the Loresraat-a place of learning where they sought to regain the knowledge and power of the Old Lords, and to train themselves in the Oath of Peace.”

Then Atiaran fell silent, and she and Covenant walked down the file in stillness textured by the whispering of the stream and by the occasional calls of the birds. He found that her tale did help him to keep up their pace. It caused him to forget himself somewhat, forget the raw ache of his shoulders and feet. And her voice seemed to give him strength; her tale was like a promise that any exhaustion borne in the Land's service would not be wasted.

After a time, he urged her to continue. “Can you tell me about the Loresraat?”

The bitter vehemence of her reply surprised him. “Do you remind me that I am of all people the least worthy to talk of these matters? You, Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder-do you reproach me?”

He could only stare dumbly at her, unable to fathom the years of struggling that filled her spacious eyes.

“I do not need your reminders.”

But a moment later she faced forward again, her expression set to meet the north. “Now you reproach me indeed,” she said. “I am too easily hurt that the whole world knows what I know so well myself. Like a guilty woman, I fail to believe the innocence of others. Please pardon me-you should receive better treatment than this.”

Before he could respond, she forged ahead. "In this way I describe the Loresraat. It stands in Trothgard in the Valley of Two Rivers, and it is a community of study and learning. To that place go all who will, and there they consecrate themselves to Earthfriendship and the Lore of the Old Lords.

“This Lore is a deep matter, not mastered yet despite all the years and effort that have been given to it. The chiefest problem is translation, for the language of the Old Lords was not like ours, and the words which are simple at one place are difficult at another. And after translation, the Lore must be interpreted, and then the skills to use it must be learned. When I”-she faltered briefly-“when I studied there, the Lorewardens who taught me said that all the Loresraat had not yet passed the surface of Kevin's mighty knowledge. And that knowledge is only a seventh part of the whole, the First Ward of Seven.”

Covenant heard an unwitting echo of Foul's contempt in her words, and it made him listen to her still more closely.

“Easiest of translation,” she went on, "has been the Warlore, the arts of battle and defence. But there much skill is required. Therefore one part of the Loresraat deals solely with those who would follow the Sword, and join the Warward of Lord's Keep. But there have been no wars in our time, and in my years at the Loresraat the Warward numbered scarcely two thousand men and women.

“Thus the chief work of the Loresraat is in teaching and studying the language and knowledge of the Earthpower. First, the new learners are taught the history of the Land, the prayers and songs and legends-in time, all that is known of the Old Lords and their struggles against the Grey Slayer. Those who master this become Lorewardens. They teach others, or search out new knowledge and power from the First Ward. The price of such mastery is high-such purity and determination and insight and courage are required by Kevin's Lore-and there are some,” she said as if she were resolved not to spare her own feelings, “who cannot match the need. I failed when that which I learned made my heart quail-when the Lorewardens led me to see, just a little way, into the Despite of the Grey Slayer. That I could not bear, and so I broke my devotion, and returned to Mithil Stonedown to use the little that I knew for my people. And now, when I have forgotten so much, my trial is upon me.”

She sighed deeply, as if it grieved her to consent to her fate. "But that is no matter. In the Loresraat, those who follow and master both Sword and Staff, who earn a place in the Warward and among the Lorewardens, and who do not turn away to pursue private dreams in isolation, as do the Unfettered those brave hearts are named Lords, and they join the Council which guides the healing and protection of the Land. From their number, they choose the High Lord, to act for all as the Lore requires:

And one High Lord to wield the Law

To keep all uncorrupt Earth's Power's core.

“In my years at the Loresraat, the High Lord was Variol Tamarantha-mate son of Pentil. But he was old, even for a Lord, and the Lords live longer than other folk-and our Stonedown has had no news of Revelstone or Loresraat for many years. I do not know who leads the Council now.”

Without thinking, Covenant said, “Prothall son of Dwillian.”

“Ah!” Atiaran gasped. “He knows me. As a Lorewarden he taught me the first prayers. He will remember that I failed, and will not trust my mission.” She shook her head in pain. Then, after a moment's reflection, she added, “And you have known this. You know all. Why do you seek to shame the rudeness of my knowledge? That is not kind.”

“Hellfire!” Covenant snapped. Her reproach made him suddenly angry. “Everybody in this whole business, you and-but he could not bring himself to say Lena's name “and everyone keep accusing me of being some sort of closet expert. I tell you, I don't know one damn thing about this unless someone explains it to me. I'm not your bloody Berek.”

Atiaran gave him a look full of scepticism-the fruit of long, harsh self-doubt- and he felt an answering urge to prove himself in some way. He stopped, pulled himself erect against the weight of his pack. “This is the message of Lord Foul the Despiser: `Say to the Council of Lords, and to High Lord Prothall son of Dwillian, that the uttermost limit of their span of days upon the Land is seven times seven years from this present time. Before the end of those days are numbered, I will have the command of life and death in my hand.”'

Abruptly, he caught himself. His words seemed to beat down the file like ravens, and he felt a hot leper's shame in his cheeks, as though he had defiled the day. For an instant, complete stillness surrounded him-the birds were as silent as if they had been stricken out of the sky, and the stream appeared motionless. In the noon heat, his flesh was slick with sweat.

For that instant, Atiaran gaped aghast at him. Then she cried, “Melenkurion abatha! Do not speak it until you must! I cannot preserve us from such ills.”

The silence shuddered, passed; the stream began chattering again, and a bird swooped by overhead. Covenant wiped his forehead with an unsteady hand. “Then stop treating me as if I'm something I'm not.”

“How can I?” she responded heavily. “You are closed to me, Thomas Covenant. I do not see you.”

She used the word see as if it meant something he did not understand. “What do you mean, you don't see me?” he demanded sourly. “I'm standing right in front of you.”

“You are closed to me,” she repeated. “I do not know whether you are well or ill.”

He blinked at her uncertainly, then realized that she had unwittingly given him a chance to tell her about his leprosy. He took the opportunity; he was angry enough for the job now. Putting aside his incomprehension, he grated, “Ill, of course. I'm a leper.”

At this, Atiaran groaned as if he had just confessed to a crime. “Then woe to the Land, for you have the wild magic and can undo us all.”

“Will you cut that out?” Brandishing his left fist, he gritted, “It's just a ring. To remind me of everything I have to live without. It's got no more-wild magic-than a rock.”

“The Earth is the source of all power,” whispered Atiaran.

With an effort, Covenant refrained from shouting his frustration at her. She was talking past him, reacting to him as if his words meant something he had not intended. “Back up a minute,” he said. “Let's get this straight. I said I was ill. What does that mean to you? Don't you even have diseases in this world?”

For an instant, her lips formed the word diseases. Then a sudden fear tightened her face, and her gaze sprang up past Covenant's left shoulder.

He turned to see what frightened her. He found nothing behind him; but as he scanned the west rim of the file, he heard a scrabbling noise. Pebbles and shale fell into the cut.

“The follower!” Atiaran cried. “Run! Run!”

Her urgency caught him; he spun and followed her as fast as he could go down the file.

Momentarily, he forgot his weakness, the weight of his pack, the heat. He pounded after Atiaran's racing heels as if he could hear his pursuer poised above him on the rim of the file. But soon his lungs seemed to be tearing under the exertion, and he began to lose his balance. When he stumbled, his fragile body almost struck the ground.

Atiaran shouted, “Run!” but he hauled up short, swung trembling around to face the pursuit.

A leaping figure flashed over the edge of the cut and dropped toward him. He dodged away from the plummet, flung up his arms to ward off the figure's swinging arm.

As the attacker passed, he scored the backs of Covenant's fingers with a knife. Then he hit the ground and rolled, came to his feet with his back to the east wall of the cut, his knife weaving threats in front of him.

The sunlight seemed to etch everything starkly in Covenant's vision. He saw the unevennesses of the wall, the shadows stretched under them like rictus.

The attacker was a young man with a powerful frame and dark hair-unmistakably a Stonedownor, though taller than most. His knife was made of stone, and woven into the shoulders of his tunic was his family insignia, a pattern like crossed lightning. Rage and hate strained his features as if his skull were splitting. “Raver!” he yelled. “Ravisher!”

He approached swinging his blade. Covenant was forced to retreat until he stood in the stream, ankle-deep in cool water.

Atiaran was running toward them, though she was too far away to intervene between Covenant and the knife.

Blood welled from the backs of his fingers. His pulse throbbed in the cuts, throbbed in his fingertips.

He heard Atiaran's commanding shout: “Triock!”

The knife slashed closer. He saw it as clearly as if it were engraved on his eyeballs.

His pulse pounded in his fingertips.

The young man gathered himself for a killing thrust.

Atiaran shouted again, “Triock! Are you mad? You swore the Oath of Peace!”

In his fingertips?

He snatched up his hand, stared at it. But his sight was suddenly dim with awe. He could not grasp what was happening.

That's impossible, he breathed in the utterest astonishment. Impossible.

His numb, leprosy-ridden fingers were aflame with pain.

Atiaran neared the two men and stopped, dropped her pack to the ground. She seemed to place a terrible restraint on Triock; he thrashed viciously where he stood. As if he were choking on passion, he spat out, “Kill him! Raver!”

“I forbid!” cried Atiaran. The intensity of her command struck Triock like a physical blow. He staggered back a step,then threw up his head and let out a hoarse snarl of frustration and rage.

Her voice cut sharply through the sound. “Loyalty is due. You took the Oath. Do you wish to damn the Land?”

Triock shuddered. In one conclusive movement, he flung down his knife so that it drove itself into the hilt in the ground by his feet. Straightening fiercely, he hissed at Atiaran, “He has ravished Lena. Last night.”

Covenant could not grasp the situation. Pain was a sensation, a splendour, his fingers had forgotten; he had no answer to it except, Impossible. Impossible. Unnoticed, his blood ran red and human down his wrist.

A spasm twiched across his face. Darkness gathered in the air about him; the atmosphere of the file seethed as if it were full of beating wings, claws wich flashed toward his face. He groaned, “Impossible.”

But Atiaran and Triock were consumed with each other, thier eyes avoided him as if he were a plague spot. As Triock's words penetrated her, she crumbled to her knees, covered her face with her hands, and dropped her forehead to the ground. Her shoulders shook as though she was sobbing, though she made no sound; and over her anguish he said bitterly, “I found her in the hills when this day's sun first touched the plains. You know my love for her. I observed her at the gathering, and was not made happy by the manner in which this fell stanger dazzled her. It wrung my heart that she should be so touched by a man whose comings and goings no one could ever know. So, late at night I enquired of Trell your husband, and learned that she said she meant to sleep with a friend-Terass daughter of Annoria. Then I enquired of Terass-and she knew nothing of Lena's porpose. Then a shadow of fear came upon me-for when have any of these people been liars? I spent the whole of the night searching for her. And at first light I found her, her shift rent and blood about her. She strove to flee from me, but she was weak from cold and pain and sorrow, and in a moment clung in my arms and told me what-what this Raver had done.

“Then I took her to Trell her father. While he cared for her I went away, purposing to kill the stranger. When I saw you, I followed, believing that my purpose was yours also-that you led him into the hills to destroy him. But you mean to save him-him, the ravisher of Lena your daughter! How has he corrupted your heart? You forbid? Atiaran Trell-mate! She was a child fair enough to make a man weep for joy at seeing her-broken without consent or care. Answer me. What have Oaths to do with us?”

The wild, rabid swirl of dark wings forced covenant down until he huddled in the stream. Images reeled across his brain-memories of the leprosarium, of doctors saying, You cannot hope. He had been hit by a police car. He had walked into town to pay his phone bill-to pay his phone bill in person. In a voice abstract with horror, he murmured, “Can't happen.”

Slowly, Atiaran raised her head and spread her arms, as if opening her breast to an impaling thrust from the sky. Her face was carved with pain, and her eyes were dark craters of grief, looking inward on her compromised humanity. “Trell, help me,” she breathed weakly. Then her voice gathered strength, and her anguish seemed to make the air about her ache. “Alas! Alas for the young in the world! Why is the burden of hating ill so hard to bear? Ah, Lena my daughter! I see what you have done. I understand. It is a brave deed, worthy of praise and pride! Forgive me that I cannot be with you in this trial.”

But after a while, her gaze swung outward again. She climbed unsteadily to her feet, and stood swaying for a moment before she rasped hoarsely, “Loyalty is due. I forbid your vengeance.”

“Does he go unpunished?” protested Triock.

“There is peril in the Land,” she answered. “Let the Lords punish him.” A taste of blood sharpened her voice. “They will know what to think of a stranger who attacks the innocent.” Then her weakness returned. “The matter is beyond me. Triock, remember your Oath.” She gripped her shoulders, knotted her fingers in the leaf pattern of her robe as if to hold her sorrow down.

Triock turned toward Covenant. There was something broken in the 'young man's face-a shattered or wasted capacity for contentment, joy. He snarled with the force of an anathema, “I know you, Unbeliever. We will meet again.” Then abruptly he began moving away. He accelerated until he was sprinting, beating out his reproaches on the hard floor of the file. In a moment, he reached a place where the west wall sloped away, and then he was out of sight, gone from the cut into the hills.

“Impossible,” Covenant murmured. “Can't happen. Nerves don't regenerate.” But his fingers hurt as if they were being crushed with pain. Apparently nerves did regenerate in the Land. He wanted to scream against the darkness and the terror, but he seemed to have lost all control of his throat, voice, self.

As if from a distance made great by abhorrence or pity, Atiaran said, “You have made of my heart a wilderland.”

“Nerves don't regenerate.” Covenant's throat clenched as if he were gagging, but he could not scream. “They don't.”

“Does that make you free?” she demanded softly, bitterly. “Does it justify your crime?”

“Crime?” He heard the word like a knife thrust through the beating wings. “Crime?” His blood ran from the cuts as if he were a normal man, but the flow was decreasing steadily. With a sudden convulsion, he caught hold of himself, cried miserably, “I'm in pain!”

The sound of his wail jolted him, knocked the swirling darkness back a step. Pain! The impossibility bridged a gap for him. Pain was for healthy people, people whose nerves were alive.

Can't happen. Of course it can't. That proves it-proves this is all a dream.

All at once, he felt an acute desire to weep. But he was a leper, and had spent too much time learning to dam such emotional channels. Lepers could not afford grief. Trembling feverishly, he plunged his cut hand into the stream.

“Pain is pain,” Atiaran grated. “What is your pain to me? You have done a black deed, Unbeliever violent and cruel, without commitment or sharing. You have given me a pain that no blood or time will wash clean. And Lena my daughter-! Ah, I pray that the Lords will punish-punish!”

The running water was chill and clear. After a moment, his fingers began to sting in the cold, and an ache spread up through his knuckles to his wrist. Red plumed away from his cuts down the stream, but the cold water soon stopped his bleeding. As he watched the current rinse clean his injury, his grief and fear turned to anger. Because Atiaran was his only companion, he growled at her, “Why should I go? None of this matters-I don't give a damn about your precious Land.”

“By the Seven!” Atiaran's hard tone seemed to chisel words out of the air. “You will go to Revelstone if I must drag you each step of the way.”

He lifted his hand to examine it. Triock's knife had sliced him as neatly as a razor; there were no jagged edges to conceal dirt or roughen the healing. But the cut had reached bone in his middle two fingers, and blood still seeped from them. He stood up. For the first time since he had been attacked, he looked at Atiaran.

She stood a few paces from him, with her hands clenched together at her heart as if its pulsing hurt her. She glared at him abominably, and her face was taut with intimations of fierce, rough strength. He could see that she was prepared to fight him to Revelstone if necessary. She shamed him, aggravated his ire. Belligerently, he waved his injury at her. “I need a bandage.”

For an instant, her gaze intensified as if she were about to hurl herself at him. But then she mastered herself, swallowed her pride. She went over to her pack, opened it, and took out a strip of white cloth, which she tore at an appropriate length as she returned to Covenant. Holding his hand carefully, she inspected the cut, nodded her approval of its condition, then bound the soft fabric firmly around his fingers. “I have no hurtloam,” she said, “and cannot take the time to search for it. But the cut looks well, and will heal cleanly.”

When she was done, she went back to her pack. Swinging it onto her shoulders, she said, “Come. We have lost time.” Without a glance at Covenant, she set off down the file.

He remained where he was for a moment, tasting the ache of his fingers. There was a hot edge to his hurt, as if the knife were still in the wound. But he had the answer to it now. The darkness had receded somewhat, and he could look about him without panic. Yet he was still afraid. He was dreaming healthy nerves; he had not realized that he was so close to collapse. Helpless, lying unconscious somewhere, he was in the grip of a crisis-a crisis of his ability to survive. To weather it he would need every bit of discipline or intransigence he could find.

On an impulse, he bent and tried to pull Triock's knife from the ground with his right hand. His half-grip slipped when he tugged straight up on the handle, but by working it back and forth he was able to loosen it, draw it free. The whole knife was shaped and polished out of one flat sliver of stone, with a haft leather-bound for a secure hold, and an edge that seemed sharp enough for shaving. He tested it on his left forearm, and found that it lifted off his hair as smoothly as if the blade were lubricated.

He slipped it under his belt. Then he hitched his pack higher on his shoulders and started after Atiaran.