“I tried,” Hyrim panted. “But I cannot swim. Oh, worthless!” A convulsion came over him. He threw his arms wide. and cried out into the rain, “Shetra!” A bolt of power struck from his staff down through the water toward the river bottom. Then he collapsed into Sill’s arms.
His blast seemed to have an effect. The river around the point of Lord Shetra’s disappearance started to boil. A turmoil in the water sent up gouts of blood and hunks of black flesh. Steam arose from the current. Deep down in the Defiles Course, a flash of blue was briefly visible.
Then a noise like a thunderclap shook the ground. The river hissed like a torrent. And the thickness of the air broke. It was swept away as if it had been washed off the Sarangrave.
The Bloodguard knew that Cerrin was dead.
Only one sign came back from Lord Shetra’s struggle. Porib saw it first, dove into the river to retrieve it.
Silently he put it into Lord Hyrim’s hands—Lord Shetra’s staff.
Between its metal-shod ends, it was completely burned and brittle. It snapped like kindling in Hyrim’s grasp.
The Lord pulled away from Sill, and seated himself against a tree. With tears running openly down his cheeks, he hugged the pieces of Shetra’s staff to his chest.
But the peril was not ended. For the sake of his Vow, Korik said to the Lord, “The lurker is not dead It has only been cut back here. We must go on.”
“Go?” Hyrim said. “Go on? Shetra is dead. How can I go on? I feared from the first that your Vow was a voice which the evil in the Sarangrave could hear. But I said nothing.” There was bitterness in him. “I believed that you would speak of it if my fear were justified.”
Again the Bloodguard had no answer. They had not known beyond doubt or possibility of error that the lurker was alert to their presence. And so many manifestations of power were not what they appeared to be. In respect for the Lord’s grief, the Bloodguard left him alone while they readied the raft to go on their way.
The steersmen had been able to salvage the poles and food, most of the clingor and the lillianrill rods, but none of the clothes or blankets. The raft itself was intact.
Then Korik spoke to Runnik, Pren, and Porib, charged them to bear word of the mission to High Lord Elena. The three accepted without question, but waited for the mission’s departure before starting their westward trek.
When all things were prepared, Korik and Sill lifted Lord Hyrim between them, and guided him like a child down the bank onto the raft. He appeared to be unwell. Perhaps the river water he had swallowed was sickening him. As the steersmen thrust the raft out into the center of the Defiles Course, he murmured to himself, “This is not the end. There will be pain and death to humble this. Hyrim son of Hoole, you are a coward.” Then the mission was gone. Together Runnik, Pren, and Porib started into the jungle of Sarangrave Flat.
The fire had died down to coals, and without its light Troy could see nothing—nothing to counteract the images of death and grief in his mind. He knew that there were questions he should ask Runnik, but in the darkness they did not seem important. He was dismayed to think that Shetra’s fall had taken place ten days ago; it felt too immediate for such a lapse of time.
The Lords beside him sat still, as if they were stunned or melding; and Covenant was silent—too moved for speech. But after a time Elena said with a shudder of emotion in her voice, “Ah, Verement! How will you bear it?” Her eyes were only visible as embers. In the darkness they had an aspect of focus and unendurable virulence.
Softly, Lord Mhoram sang:
Death is passing on—
the making way of life and time for life.
Hate dying and killing, not death. Be still, heart:
make no expostulation.
Hold peace and grief,
and be still.
FIFTEEN: Revelwood
The High Lord’s company reached the Loresraat by nightfall of the sixth day. During the last leagues, the road worked gradually down into the lowlands of Trothgard; and just as the sun started to dip into the Westron Mountains, the riders entered the wide Valley of Two Rivers.
There the Rill and Llurallin came together in a broad V, joined each other in the narrow end of the valley, to the left of the riders. The Llurallin River, which flowed almost due east below them, arose from clear springs high in the raw rock of the mountains beyond Guards Gap, and had a power of purity that had rendered it inviolate to all the blood and hacked flesh and blasted earth which had ruined Kurash Plenethor. Now, generations after the Desecration, it ran with the same crystal taintlessness which had given it its ancient name—the Llurallin.
Across the valley was the Rill River, the southern boundary of Trothgard. Like the Maerl, the Rill had been greatly improved by the long work of the Lords, and the water which flowed from the Valley of Two Rivers no longer deserved the name Gray.
In the center of the valley, within the broad middle of the river V, was Revelwood, the tree city of the Loresraat.
It was an immense and expansive banyan. Invoked and strengthened by the new knowledge of the Second Ward, and by the Staff of Law, it grew to the height of a mighty oak, sent down roots as thick as hawsers from boughs as broad as walkways—roots which formed new trunks with new boughs and new roots—and spread out in the valley until the central core of the first tree was surrounded by six others, all inter-grown, part of each other, the fruit of one seed.
Once these seven trunks were established, the shapers of the tree prevented any more of the hanging roots from reaching the ground, and instead wove the thick bundles into chambers and rooms—homes and places of study for the students and teachers of the Loresraat. Three of the outer trees had been similarly woven before their roots found the soil, and so now their trunks contained cavities large enough for meeting halls and libraries. On the sheltered acres of ground beneath the trees were gardens and practice fields, training areas for the students of both Staff and Sword. And above the main massive limbs of the trees, the lesser branches had been trained and shaped for leaf-roofed dwellings and open platforms.
Revelwood was a thriving city, amply supplied by the fertile lowlands of Trothgard; and the Loresraat was busier now than at any other time in its history. The Lorewardens and apprentices of the Sword and Staff did all the work of the city—all the cooking, farming, herding, cleaning—but they were not its only inhabitants. A band of lillianrill lived there to care for the tree itself. Visitors came from all over the Land. Villages sent emissaries to seek knowledge from the Lorewardens; Hirebrands came to study the Tree; and Gravelingases used Revelwood as a dwelling from which to visit the rock gardens. And the Lords worked there to keep their promises to the Land.
As the riders looked down at it, its broad, glossy leaves caught the orange-red fire of the sun, so that it appeared to burn proudly above the shadows spreading down the valley. The company responded to the sight with a glad hail. Clapping their heels to their mounts, they galloped down the slope toward the ford of the Llurallin.
In the time when Revelwood was being grown, the Lords had been mindful of its defense. They had made only two fords for the valley, one across each river. And the ford beds were submerged; they had to be raised before they could be used. All the High Lord’s company except Covenant had the necessary knowledge and skill, so Troy was vaguely surprised when Elena halted on the riverbank, and gravely asked Trell to open the ford. Troy understood that she was doing the Gravelingas an honor, but he did not know why. Her gesture deepened the mystery of Trell.
Without meeting her gaze, Trell dismounted, and walked to the Llurallin’s edge. At first, he did not appear to know the ford’s secret. Troy had learned a few quick words in a strange language and two gestures to raise the bed, but Trell used none of them. He stood on the bank as if he were presenting himself to the deep current, and began to sing a rumbling, cryptic song. The rest of the company watched him in hushed stillness. Troy could not grasp the words of the song, but he felt their effect. They had an old, bur
ied, cavernous sound, as if they were being sung by the bedrock of the valley. For a moment, they made him want to weep.
But soon Trell’s singing stopped. In silence, he lifted his arms—and the flat rock of the ford stood up out of the river bottom. It broke water in sections with channels between them so that it did not dam the current. By the time it was ready for crossing, it was as dry as if it had never been submerged.
With his head bowed, Trell walked back to his mount.
When the last horse had crossed the river, and all the company was within the valley, the ford closed itself without any of the usual signals.
Troy was impressed. Remembering Trell’s attack on Covenant, he thought that the Unbeliever was lucky to be alive. And he began to feel that he would be well advised to solve the riddle of Trell before he left Trothgard.
But he could do nothing immediately. The last twilight was ebbing out of the valley as if the river currents carried the light away, and he had to concentrate to keep a grip on his own location. The Lorewardens lit torches, but torchlight could not take the place of the sun. Focusing himself sternly, he rode between Lord Mhoram and Ruel across the valley toward Revelwood.
The High Lord’s company was met on the ground near the Tree by a welcoming group of Lorewardens. They greeted the Lords with solemn dignity, and embraced their comrades who returned from visiting Lord’s Keep. To Warmark Troy, whom they knew well, they gave a special welcome. But when they caught sight of Covenant, they all turned toward him. Squaring their, shoulders as if to meet an inspection, they saluted him, and said together, “Hail, white gold wielder!—you who are named ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and Ringthane. Be welcome in Revelwood! You are the crux and pivot of our age in the Land—the keeper of the wild magic which destroys peace. Honor us by accepting our hospitality.”
Troy expected some discomforting sarcasm from Covenant. But the Unbeliever replied in a gruff, embarrassed voice, “Your hospitality honors me.”
The Lorewardens bowed in answer, and their leader stepped forward. He was an old, wrinkled man with hooded eyes and a stooped posture—the result of decades of back-bending study. His voice had a slight tremor of age. “I am Corimini,” he said, “the Eldest of the Loresraat. I speak for all the seekers of the Lore, both Sword and Staff. The accepting of a gift returns honor to the giver. Be welcome.” As he spoke, he held out his hand to help Covenant dismount.
But Covenant either misunderstood the gesture or went beyond it intuitively. Instead of swinging off his mount, he brusquely pulled his wedding band from his left hand and dropped it into Corimini’s extended palm.
The Eldest caught his breath; a look of astonishment widened his eyes. Almost at once, he turned to show the ring to the other Lorewardens. With muted awed murmurings of invocation like low snatches of prayer, they crowded around Corimini to gaze at the white gold, and to handle it with fingers that trembled.
But their touches were brief. Shortly Corimini returned to Covenant. The Eldest’s eyes were damp with emotion, and his hand shook as he passed the ring back up to the Unbeliever. “Ur-Lord Covenant,” he said with a pronounced quaver, “you exceed us. We will need many generations to repay this honor. Command us, so that we may serve you.”
“I don’t need service,” Covenant replied bluntly. “I need an alternative. Find some way to save the Land without me.”
“I do not wholly understand you,” said Corimini. “All our strength is bent toward the preservation of the Land. If that may aid you also, we will be pleased.” Facing the company of the Lords more generally, he went on, “Will you now enter Revelwood with us? We have prepared food and pleasure for you.”
High Lord Elena made a gracious answer, and dropped lightly from Myrha’s back. The rest of the riders promptly dismounted. At once, a group of students hurried out of the shadows of the Tree to take charge of the horses. Then the company was escorted through the ring of trunks toward the central tree. Many lights had appeared throughout Revelwood, and their combined illumination ameliorated the dimness of Troy’s sight. He was able to walk confidently with the Lords, and to look up with fondness into the branches of the familiar city. In some ways, he felt more at home here than in Lord’s Keep. In Revelwood he had learned to see.
And he felt that Revelwood also suited the High Lord. The two were inextricably linked for him. He was gratified by her just preeminence, her glow of gentle authority, and her easy grace as she swung up the wide ladder of the central trunk. Under her influence, he found the fortitude to give Covenant a word of encouragement when the Unbeliever balked at climbing into the Tree.
“You don’t understand,” Covenant responded vaguely. “I’m afraid of heights.” With a look of rigid trepidation, he forced his hands to the rungs of the ladder.
Bannor took a position close behind Covenant, making himself responsible for the ur-Lord’s safety. Soon they had climbed to the level of the first branches.
Troy moved easily up into the Tree after them. The smooth, strong wood of the rungs made him feel that he could not miss his grip; it almost seemed to lift him upward, as if Revelwood were eager for him. In moments, he was high up the trunk, stepping away from the ladder onto one of the main boughs of the city. The shapers of Revelwood had grown the banyan so that the upper surfaces of the branches were flat, and the level stretch down which Troy walked was wide enough for three or four people to stand safely abreast. As he moved, he waved greetings to the people he knew—most of the Sword Lorewardens, and a few students whose families lived in Lord’s Keep.
The procession of the Lords crossed an intersection where several limbs came together, and passed beyond it toward one of the outer trunks. Formed in this trunk was a large hall, and when Troy entered it he found that the room had been set for a banquet. The chamber was brilliant with lillianrill torches; long tables with carpets of moss between them covered the floor; and students of all ages bustled around, carrying trays laden with steaming bowls and flagons.
There Troy was joined by Drinishok, Sword-Elder of the Lorewardens, and the Warmark’s first battle-teacher. Except for his grizzled eyebrows, Drinishok did not look like a warrior; his thin, spidery limbs and fingers did not seem sturdy enough to handle either a sword or a bow. But three Lords and three-quarters of Troy’s Warward had trained under the old Sword Elder; and his tanned forearms were laced with many white battle scars. Troy greeted his mentor warmly, and after standing together in the Land’s customary thanks for food, they sat down to the feast.
The fare of Revelwood was simple but excellent—it made up in convivial gusto what it lacked in complexity—and all the Lords and Lorewardens were bountifully supplied with meats, rice, cheeses, bread, fruit, and springwine. Warmed by the glow of Revelwood’s welcome, the High Lord’s company ate with enthusiasm, talking and joking all the while with their hosts and the busy students. Then, when the eating was done, High Lord Elena presided over an entertainment which the students had prepared. Champions of the Sword gave demonstrations of gymnastics and blade work, and the apprentices of the Staff told an intricate tale which they had distilled from the ancient Giantish story of Bahgoon the Unbearable and Thelma Twofist who tamed him. Troy had never heard it before, and it delighted him.
He was reluctant to lose this pleased and comfortable mood, so when the Lords left the hall with the Lorewardens to speak with them concerning the tidings which Runnik had brought from Sarangrave Flat, Troy did not accompany them. Instead, he accepted Drinishok’s invitation, and went to spend the night in the old Sword-Elder’s home.
High in one of the outer trees, in a chamber woven of leaves and branches, he and Drinishok sat up for a long time, drinking springwine and discussing the war. Drinishok was excited by the prospect of the battle, and he avowed that only Revelwood’s need for a strong defense kept him from marching with the Warward. As always, he showed a swift grasp of Troy’s ideas, and when the Warmark finally went to bed the only immediate blot on his private satisfaction was the mystery of Tr
ell.
The breeze in the branches lulled him into a fine sleep, and he awoke early the next morning feeling eager for the new day. He was amused but not surprised to find that his host was up and away before him; he knew the rigorous schedule of the Loresraat. He bathed and dressed, pulled his high boots over his black leggings, and carefully adjusted his headband and his sunglasses. After a quick breakfast, he spent a few moments polishing his breastplate and his gleaming ebony sword. When he was properly appareled as the Warmark of the Lords’ Warward, he left Drinishok’s chambers, moved to the central tree, and started up it toward the lookout of Revelwood.
On a small platform in the uppermost branches of the Tree, he joined the two students on watch duty. While he exchanged pleasantries with them, he breathed the crisp autumn air and studied the whole length and breadth of the Valley of Two Rivers. In the west, he could see the snow crests of the mountains. He was not being cautious, looking for danger. He loved the fertile hills of Trothgard, and he wanted to fix them in his mind so that he would never forget them. If something were to strike him down during the coming war, he wanted to be sure to the very end, death or blindness, that he had in fact seen this place.
He was still in the lookout when he heard the signal for the gathering of the Loresraat.
At once, he took leave of the two students, and started down the Tree. Shortly he reached the wide, roofless bowl of the gathering place. High in the city, on a frame of four heavy boughs radiating from the central trunk, the shapers of Revelwood had woven an immense net of banyan roots and hung it around the central trunk. It formed a wide basin supported by the four boughs and anchored by the roots themselves in each of the six outer trees. The result was the viancome, a meeting place large enough for half the population of the city. People sat on the roots and dangled their feet through the gaps of the net.
These gaps were rarely larger than a foot square, but they made the viancome an uneasy experience for novices. However, the people of Revelwood moved and even ran lightly over the net. Warmark Troy, with a blind man’s alert, careful feet, was able to walk confidently away from the central trunk to join Drinishok and the other Sword Lorewardens where they stood partway up one side of the bowl.
Thomas Covenant 02: The Illearth War Page 25