When darkness had settled over the Spoiled Plains, Naybahn and Mhornym took shelter in a crooked gully. There a slightly brackish stream flowed vaguely northward, perhaps adding its waters to the Sarangrave; and along its sides grew tough saw-edged grasses sufficient for the destrier, as well as clumps of aliantha stunted like scrog. And among them grew a scant patch of amanibhavam to sustain the Ranyhyn. Clearly the Ranyhyn intended to rest there for the night.
After a sparse meal of treasure-berries, Branl left the gully to stand watch; and Covenant tried to settle himself for sleep by scooping hollows in the loose dirt to form a crude bed. Watching, Clyme remarked that the barrage of Falls would disturb the weather over the Lower Land. The Humbled sensed the approach of storms; of rain and winds in turmoil. But Covenant only shrugged. He could barely resist his memories: he certainly had no control over the weather. If his leprosy and the warmth of the krill did not sustain him, he would simply have to endure whatever came.
Huddled into himself, he dozed and roused repeatedly, waiting with as much patience as he could muster for the night to pass.
At dawn, he learned that Clyme was right. The sun first rose into a sky appalled by a taint that resembled dust and ash or smoke; but soon dark clouds came boiling over the Plains, and rain began to spatter down, apparently driven by winds from every direction at once. Before Covenant had finished quenching his thirst and eating more aliantha, his T-shirt and jeans were soaked. When he mounted the horse, he saw that the beast’s endurance had been reduced to gritted misery. It had not rested not enough to restore its spirit. Nevertheless the Harrow’s charger strained to resume its effortful gallop.
In rain and contending winds, Covenant and the Humbled continued their eastward rush.
Sometime during the night, the caesures had ceased. Presumably Joan had exhausted herself. Or turiya Raver may have been given new instructions. But Covenant refused to think about them. He tried not to think about Linden. Wrapping his arms across his chest, he endeavored to ignore the rain by emptying his mind of everything except the heat of the krill: the heat, yes, but not the gem from which it radiated, or the implications of wild magic. If he allowed himself to yearn for anything more than ordinary warmth from Loric’s eldritch dagger, Joan or turiya might sense his attention. They might even be able to locate him.
Emulating Jeremiah’s vacancy, Covenant rode and rode; opened his mouth to the rain when he was thirsty; ate aliantha when the fruit was given to him; and accepted his regret whenever Linden slipped into his thoughts.
Finally a change in the weather drew him out of his willed somnolence. The day had reached late afternoon, and the rain had stopped. Perhaps because the winds had resolved themselves into a bitter blast out of the west, the storm clouds had scudded away, leaving behind a sky mired with ash and fine dirt like the fug of a distant calamity.
Yet the murk in the air appeared to come from the east. Against the wind—
Now on the horizon to his right Covenant could make out the first jagged outcroppings of the Shattered Hills. And perhaps a league or two ahead of the horses, the terrain rose in a long slow sweep as if the ground were gathering itself to plunge over the edge of the world.
Was that the cliff fronting the Sunbirth Sea? Covenant wanted badly to have covered so much ground; but he had no way to estimate how far he and the Humbled had traveled. And he doubted that his mount would last long enough to reach the top of the rise. He felt exhausted himself, physically battered. His legs quivered trying to grip the destrier’s sides. But the beast’s condition was worse; much worse. During the day, it had surpassed its strength. Now its heart hardly seemed able to manage a lurching beat. As far as he could discern, only the insistence of the Ranyhyn kept the charger from surrendering its last breath.
The horses’ hooves were barely audible over the raw hum of the wind. They were running on grass as thick as turf. Apparently this portion of the Lower Land received more rain than the westward reaches. Covenant and his companions must indeed be nearing the coast, where natural storms would break and tumble on the cliffs, releasing a comparative abundance of rainfall. Here the destrier could have cropped enough grass to refresh a measure of its stamina; but it made no attempt to pause or feed. The beast’s spirit was broken. It had nothing left except a primitive desire to perish without more suffering.
Through the bitter plaint of the wind, Covenant called to the Humbled, “Where are we?”
Branl glanced at him. “We approach the cliff above the Sunbirth Sea. There we will seek out shelter ere nightfall, hoping for some covert to ward you from the chill of this wind.”
Covenant nodded; but he felt no relief. “What’re we going to do when my horse dies? This poor thing won’t last much longer. As soon as it stops moving, it’s finished.”
He needed a mount. He was too far north; too far from Foul’s Creche. He could not afford the time to walk that distance.
Branl shrugged. “The beast has labored valiantly. It must be allowed its final peace.” A moment later, he added, “Mhornym is well able to bear two riders—as is Naybahn.”
“Don’t insult me,” Covenant growled, even though he knew that the Humbled meant no offense. “You keep your promises. What makes you think I won’t do the same?”
Long ago, he had made a pact with the Ranyhyn. He intended to abide by it. How else could he ask them to do likewise?
Briefly Branl consulted with Clyme in silence. Then he asked, “What alternative remains? We have seen no more amanibhavam.”
Covenant swore to himself. “Then what about aliantha?”
Branl raised an eyebrow: a subtle show of surprise. “It is not a natural provender for horses. Neither horse nor Ranyhyn consumes such fruit.”
“So what?” Covenant countered. “It’s worth a try.”
After only a moment, Branl nodded. “Indeed, ur-Lord.”
At once, Clyme and Mhornym veered aside, racing in search of treasure-berries.
Fortunately they soon found what they sought. The destrier was stumbling at the slope. Each time the beast caught itself, locked its knees, and jerked forward, it came closer to falling. With every stride, its muscles trembled like the onset of a seizure. Covenant had to clutch the saddle horn to keep his seat.
Strain throbbed in his temples as he watched Clyme dismount to gather treasure-berries, then leap onto Mhornym’s back and return. While the Ranyhyn sped toward Covenant and Branl, Clyme pitted berries deftly with his fingers, scattering the seeds.
Please, Covenant asked Naybahn and Mhornym, hoping that they understood his thoughts, or his heart. Keep this animal alive. Make it eat. I know it’s suffered enough, but I need it. I don’t know what else to try.
As if in response, Naybahn slowed to a halt. Staggering on the verge of collapse, the destrier did the same. Its chest heaved brokenly, dying for more air than its lungs could hold.
Uselessly Covenant wondered why the Ranyhyn had not taken better care of his mount earlier. But he had no idea how to question the great horses. Perhaps they perceived a need for haste which outweighed lesser considerations. At other times, they had shown that they knew more than they could communicate about the events of the world. Or perhaps they were testing Covenant’s determination to keep his promises—
Clyme dropped to the turf at the destrier’s head. Firmly he untied the bridle, tugged the reins out of Covenant’s hands, slipped the snaffle from the beast’s mouth. Holding the horse by its mane, he lifted one cupped hand full of fruit to its mouth.
At first, the destrier only gasped at the berries, too drained to blow froth; too empty of life to scent anything, want anything. But both Naybahn and Mhornym gazed at Covenant’s mount with instructions in their stern eyes; and after a moment, a small spasm ran through the beast’s muscles as if it had been goaded. Weakly the horse lipped a few treasure-berries from Clyme’s hand.
Covenant should have dismounted, but he did not think to move. With as much concentration as he could muster, he focused his
senses on the destrier’s condition: on the limping struggle of its heart, the shredded straining of its lungs.
Relief left him briefly light-headed when the horse took more aliantha. His health-sense was too blunt for precise discernment, but he seemed to feel a faint touch of vitality flow into the beast’s veins.
Then he remembered to slip down from the destrier. His own legs throbbed at the unaccustomed effects of two days on horseback; and he felt battered, as if he had fallen from a great height. Standing would do him good: walking would be better.
While Clyme stroked the destrier’s neck, encouraging it, Branl rode away. When he came back, he brought another handful of berries. These the horse ate more willingly.
The Humbled both nodded in satisfaction. “Ur-Lord,” Clyme announced, “with your consent we will walk to the cliff. Gentle movement will quicken the benison of aliantha. Mayhap the beast’s awareness of hunger will awaken. If we then discover water—” He shrugged; did not finish the thought.
Covenant knew what he meant. Maybe the horse would live. Maybe it would be strong enough to carry him after a night’s rest.
If.
“Sure,” he answered. “We can at least hope.”
Leaving Clyme and Mhornym with the destrier, Covenant headed up the long rise, accompanied by Branl on Naybahn. At first, he walked stiffly, forcing each stride against the protest of his muscles. But gradually his limbs loosened. And the grass softened his steps. Soon he began to move more briskly, aiming to reach the rim of the slope before twilight.
Half a league from the horizon-line where the ground dropped away, Naybahn adjusted his course slightly to the south.
As Covenant drew closer, he saw that the precipice was scored with cracks. Some of them looked like the results of erosion, the claw-marks of weather and old time. Others appeared to be deeper faults in the fundamental substance of the cliff. But he still did not smell salt or hear surf. The harsh wind from the west blew away any indication that he was approaching the sea.
Naybahn angled farther south. Instinctively Covenant quickened his strides. Vulnerable in his damp clothes, he was already chilled: he wanted to believe that Naybahn or Branl would lead him to some kind of shelter from the wind.
Tossing his head, the Ranyhyn gave a snort that sounded disdainful. For his own reasons, if not for Branl’s, the stallion nudged Covenant with his shoulder. Have you forgotten who I am? Are you foolish enough to doubt us? You who spoke of trust? That gentle bump directed Covenant toward a crack or crevice extending perhaps a hundred paces inland.
At the tip of the crack, he found that it was shallow enough for a horse to enter, wide enough to admit a mounted rider. Its floor as it dropped toward the precipice was not dangerously steep. And it ended, not in a plunge, but on a ledge as broad as a road.
There Covenant saw the Sunbirth Sea.
Under a leaden sky at the onset of evening, it looked misnamed. Lashed waves taller than Giants, and as dark as thunderheads, seethed heavily toward the cliff and out of sight. Tumbling winds ripped the crests of the waves to spume, tore them in all directions. Nonetheless the seas heaved closer with the massive inevitability of avalanches or calving glaciers. In spite of his numbness, Covenant seemed to feel a faint tremor as each breaker crashed against the granite coast. Somewhere far beyond the range of his perceptions, storms which had fled eastward earlier hammered the ocean; or some new atmospheric violence was gathering against the Land.
Without hesitation, Naybahn entered the split and bore Branl downward. Cautiously Covenant followed.
As he worked his way toward the ledge, he glimpsed more and more of the sea. Atavistic vertigo began to squirm through him: the waves were a long way down—A man who fell from that ledge would have time to repent every misdeed of his life before he died. Reflexively he hugged the stone of the crevice-wall; but its ancient endurance refused to steady him.
Don’t, he commanded himself. Don’t look. But the plunge was already calling to him. It insinuated itself among the pathways of his brain, urging him to stagger and reel and drop; to pitch the disease of his existence over the precipice. He was in a crevice, and his mind was a maze of fissures. Memories summoned him from all sides. Soon they would become a gyre, a geas, and the cliff or the past would take him.
In some other life, Lena would have come to his aid. Foamfollower and Triock would have helped him. Or Linden’s presence would have given him the will to suppress this spinning. But in this life—
Branl clasped his arm in a grip like a manacle. Beyond the Master, Naybahn waited on the ledge, unconcerned by the fall. But Branl had come back for Covenant.
The Haruchai forgot nothing. They had a strength that Covenant lacked, one supreme gift: within themselves, they were not alone. As well as he could, Branl contradicted Covenant’s impulse toward isolation and dizziness.
Anchored by the grasp of the Humbled, Covenant moved toward Naybahn without losing his way.
On the ledge, the Ranyhyn stood between him and the precipice. Branl held his arm. Protected in that fashion, Covenant went warily southward.
Now he could hear the waves: an iterated crash-and-roar among the rocks far below him. The turmoil of winds sawing against granite edges everywhere complicated the rush and smash of the breakers, emphasized their timeless hunger. For a few moments, the surf seemed to have a voice, singing of mortality—
All hurt is like the endless surge of seas,
The wear and tumbling that leaves no welt
But only sand instead of granite ease
—until he almost stumbled into his fragmented past. But then the ledge rounded a bulge and became the floor of another split in the battered cliff.
The sun was setting quickly now: he could barely see. This crack led downward without visible limit or end into the heart of the gutrock. After a dozen steps, however, Naybahn and Branl brought him to a break in the left-hand wall of the split, a gap just wide enough to admit the Ranyhyn. Drawn through the break into complete darkness, Covenant sensed that he was entering an open space like a chamber in the stone. Just for a moment, he thought that the chamber was a closed cavity. But almost at once, he discerned a slit of gloom in the direction of the sea; heard the faint plash and susurrus of water.
He could not smell salt. Air-currents flowing into and out of the cave carried away the ocean’s scent.
“Here is shelter, ur-Lord,” Branl stated flatly. “Thus shielded, you will suffer little of the wind’s chill, though doubtless the stone is cold. And beyond us arises a goodly spring, flowing past our feet to drain from the cliff.”
Covenant nodded, trusting the Humbled to see what he could not. “What about the Harrow’s horse?”
“Clyme and Mhornym will guide the beast to water here.” Branl spoke like the darkness. “Thereafter the Ranyhyn and your mount will surely depart to feed above the cliff. When they have cropped their fill, however, I anticipate that they will return to this covert, to share warmth and rest. In that event, the Humbled will stand guard at the rims of the precipice.”
Covenant nodded again. He felt perfectly capable of freezing to death if three horses did not suffice to warm the chamber. Nevertheless he was content with his sanctuary. It was better than any covert that he had expected to find. “If you’ll guide me to a place where I can sit down—preferably someplace dry—I’ll get us some light.”
And some heat? He hoped so.
Holding Covenant’s arm, Branl steered him to a level surface where he was able to step over the stream. Beyond the spill of water, the chamber’s floor rose toward its far wall in stages like steps. There Covenant sat down and carefully untucked the bundled krill from his waist.
He had reason to believe that Loric’s dagger could cut anything. Long ago, he had stabbed it into the top of a stone table. With as much care as his deadened and foreshortened fingers could manage, he unwound fabric from the blade without touching the metal. The haft and the gem he kept covered. After a moment’s hesitation, he raised
his arms and drove the krill’s point at the rock between his boots.
He expected a hard jolt, a skitter of metal as the blade skidded across stone. But the knife pierced rock as if it were flesh; bit deep and held fast, standing like an icon in the floor.
“Well, damn,” he breathed unsteadily. “At least that worked.”
With the nub-ends of his fingers, he unwrapped the rest of the cloth; let the gem’s bright silver shine out.
It resembled a beacon, but he chose to believe that it would not draw Joan’s attention if he did not touch it.
The sudden blaze of light filled the cave: it seemed to efface even the possibility of shadows. Branl stood etched in the air beside a brisk stream that caught the radiance and glittered flowing argent as it ran toward a narrow slit like an embrasure in the fortification of the cliff. As Naybahn drank from the stream, the stallion’s coat glowed as if it had been touched with transcendence, and the star on his forehead gleamed.
Apart from the window to the outer world on one side, and the tapering hollow opposite it from which the spring emerged, the chamber was shaped like a dome. Even at its tallest point, the ceiling was too low to let a Giant stand fully upright; but the dome was high enough, and more than wide enough, to admit several horses. Its walls and ceiling were oddly smooth: the eldritch gem’s echo of wild magic made them look burnished, almost holy, as if at some point in the distant past they had formed a primitive fane. In contrast, however, the floor was rough and scalloped, composed of a different stone which seemed to insist that it was made for darkness rather than for light.
As Branl had predicted, the rock was cold. Covenant already felt its chill seeping into him through his damp jeans. Fortunately he also felt steady heat emanating from Loric’s dagger. White gold in the hands of its rightful wielder made the whole knife too hot for his unprotected flesh. By that sign, he knew that Joan was still alive. Inadvertently her reflected desperation might warm the entire chamber.
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