FIVE: Dukkha
Covenant turned back to the southward view from Revelstone. He had many things to think about, and no easy way to grasp them. But already his senses seemed to be swinging into consonance with the Land. He could smell the crops in the fields east of him they were nearly ready for harvesting—and see the inner ripeness of the distant trees. He found autumn in the way the sunlight stroked his face. Such sensations accented the excitement in his veins, but they confused his efforts to deal clearly with his situation. No leper, he thought painfully, no leper should be asked to live in such a healthy world.
Yet he could not deny it; he was moved by Mhoram’s account of the dilemmas of the Lords. He was moved by the Land, and by the people who served it—though they made him look so small to himself. Sourly he left the balcony, and scanned the tray of food which had been set for him on a stone table in the center of his sitting room. The soup and stew still steamed, reminding him how hungry he was.
No. He could not afford to make any more concessions. Hunger was like nerve-health—illusion, deception, dream. He could not –
A knock at the door interrupted him. For a moment, he stood still, irresolute. He did not want to talk to anyone until he had had more time to think. But at the same time he did not want to be alone. The threat of madness was always at its worst when he was alone.
Keep moving, don’t look back, he muttered bitterly to himself, echoing a formula which had served him ambiguously at best.
He went to open the door.
Standing in the outer hallway was Hile Troy.
He was dressed as Covenant had seen him before, with his sunglasses firmly in place; and again the slight smile on his lips looked vaguely mysterious and apologetic. A sharp pang of anxiety joined the tingling of Covenant’s blood. He had been trying not to think about this man.
“Come on,” Troy said. His tone was full of the power of command. “The Lords are doing something you ought to see.”
Covenant shrugged to disguise a tremor in his shoulders. Troy was an adversary—Covenant could sense it. But he had made his decision when he had opened the door. Defiantly he strode out into the hall.
In the hallway, he found Bannor standing watch by his door.
Hile Troy started away with a swift, confident stride, but Covenant turned toward the Bloodguard. Bannor met his look with a nod; for a moment they held each other’s eyes. Bannor’s flat, brown, unreadable face had not changed a whit, not aged a day that Covenant could discern. As he stood relaxed and ready, the Bloodguard radiated a physical solidity, a palpable competence, which intimidated or belittled Covenant; and yet Covenant sensed something extreme and sad in Bannor’s timeless impenetrability.
The Bloodguard were said to be two thousand years old. They were clenched into immutability by a strait and consuming Vow of service to the Lords, while all the people they had ever known—including the long-lived Giants, and High Lord Kevin, who had inspired them to their Vow—fell into dust.
Looking now at Bannor, with his alien countenance and his bare feet and his short brown tunic, Covenant received a sudden intuitive impression, as if a previous subliminal perception had crystallized. How many times had Bannor saved his life? For an instant, he could not remember. He felt unexpectedly sure that the Bloodguard could tell him what he needed to know, that from the extravagance of his two-thousand-year perspective, bereft by the unforeseen power of his Vow of home and sleep and death, of everyone he had ever loved, he had gained the knowledge Covenant needed.
“Bannor—” he began.
“Ur-Lord.” The Bloodguard’s voice was as passionless as time.
But Covenant did not know how to ask; he could not put his need into words which would not sound like an attack on the Bloodguard’s impossible fidelity. Instead he murmured, “So we’re back to this.”
“The High Lord has chosen me to keep watch over you.”
“Come on,” called Troy peremptorily. “You should see this.”
Covenant disregarded him for a moment longer. To Bannor, he said, “I hope—I hope it works out better than the last time.” Then he turned and moved down the hall after Troy. He knew that Bannor came behind him, though the Bloodguard walked without a sound.
Impatiently Hile Troy guided Covenant inward through the levels of the Keep. They passed briskly across high vaulted halls, along connecting corridors, and down stairs until they reached a place that Covenant recognized: the long circular passage around the sacred enclosure, where the inhabitants of Revelstone worshipped.
He followed Troy in through one of the many doors onto a balcony which hung in the great cavern. The cavity was cylindrical in shape, with seven balconies cut into the walls, a flat floor with a dais on one side, and a domed ceiling too high above the balconies to be seen clearly. The enclosure was dim; the only illumination came from four large lillianrill torches set around the dais. Bannor closed the door, shutting out the light from the outer hallway; and in the gloom Covenant clung to the railing for security against the depth of the cavity. He was several hundred feet above the dais.
The balconies were nearly empty. Clearly whatever ceremony was about to be enacted was not intended for the general population of Revelstone.
The nine Lords were already on the dais. They stood in a circle facing each other. With their backs to the torches, their faces were shadowed, and Covenant could not make out their features.
“This is your doing,” said Troy in an intent whisper. “They have tried everything else. You shamed them into this.”
Two Bloodguard bearing some figure between them moved toward the dais. With a start, Covenant identified the injured Waynhim. Dukkha was struggling feebly, but it could not prevent the Bloodguard from placing it within the circle of the Lords.
“They’re going to try to break the hold of the Illearth Stone,” Troy continued. “This is risky. If they fail, it could spread to one of them. They’ll be too exhausted to fight it.”
Clutching the railing with both hands, Covenant watched the scene below him. The two Bloodguard left dukkha cowering in the circle, and retreated to the wall of the enclosure. For a long moment, the Lords stood in silent concentration, preparing themselves. Then they lifted their heads, planted their staffs firmly before them on the stone, and began to sing. Their hymn echoed in the enclosure as if the domed gloom itself were resonating. They appeared small in the immense chamber, but their song stood up boldly, filling the air with authority and purpose.
As the echoes died, Troy whispered in Covenant’s ear, “If something goes wrong here, you’re going to pay for it.”
I know, Covenant said like a prophet. I’m going to have to pay for everything.
When silence at last refilled the enclosure, High Lord Elena said in a clear voice, “Dharmakshetra, Waynhim, if you can hear us through the wrong which has been done to you, listen. We seek to drive the power of the Illearth Stone from you. Please aid us. Resist the Despiser. Dukkha, hear! Remember health and hope, and resist this ill!”
Together the Lords raised their staffs.
Troy’s fingers reached out of the darkness and gripped Covenant’s arm above the elbow.
Crying in one voice, “Melenkurion abatha!” the Lords struck their staffs on the stone. The metal rang through the sacred enclosure like a clashing of shields, and blue Lordsfire burst from the upheld end of each staff. The incandescent flames burned hotly, outshining the light of the torches. But the Staff of Law dazzled them all, flaring like a tongue of lightning. And the fire of the staffs made a low sound like the rush of distant storm winds.
Slowly one of the lesser staffs bent toward the head of dukkha. It descended, then stopped with its flame well above the Waynhim’s head, as if at that point the fire met resistance. When the wielding Lord pressed down, the air between dukkha’s skull and the staff ignited; the whole space burned. But the fire there was as green as cold emerald, and it devoured the Lords’ blue power.
Troy’s fingers dug like claws into t
he flesh of Covenant’s arm. But Covenant hardly felt them.
To meet the green flame, the Lords broke into s stern antiphonal chant, using words that Covenant could not understand. Their voices pounded against the green, and the rushing wind of their power mounted. Yet through it could be heard the voice of dukkha Waynhim, gibbering.
One by one, the Lords added their fires to the struggle over dukkha’s head, until only the Staff of Law remained uncommitted. As each new power touched the green, a sound of hunger and the crushing of bones multiplied in the sir, and the baleful emerald fire blazed up more mightily, expanding like an inferno of cruel ice to combat the Lords’ strength.
Abruptly, the lillianrill torches went out, as if extinguished by a high wind.
Troy’s fingers tightened.
Then High Lord Elena’s voice sprang out over the song of the Lords. “Melenkurion abatha! Duroc minas mill khabaal!” With a sweeping stroke, she swung the Staff of Law into the fray.
For an instant, the force of her attack drove the conflicting fires together. Blue and green became one, and raged up over the circle of the Lords, ravening and roaring like a holocaust. But the next moment, dukkha shrieked as if its soul were torn in two. The towering flame ruptured like a thunderhead.
The detonation blew out all the fire in the enclosure. At once a darkness as complete as a grave closed over the Lords.
Then two small torches appeared in the hands of the Bloodguard. The dim light showed dukkha lying on the stone beside two prostrate Lords. The others stood in their places, leaning on their staffs as if stunned by their exertion.
Seeing the fallen Lords, Troy drew a breath that hissed fiercely through his teeth. His fingers seemed to be trying to bare Covenant’s bone. But Covenant bore the pain, watched the Lords.
Swiftly the Bloodguard refit the four torches around the dais. At the touch of the warm light, one of the Lords—Covenant recognized Mhoram—shook off his numbness, and went to kneel beside his collapsed comrades. He examined them for a moment with his hands, using his sense of touch to explore the damage done to them; then he turned and bent over dukkha. Around him vibrated a silence of hushed fear.
At last he climbed to his feet, bracing himself with his staff. He spoke in a low voice, but his words carried throughout the enclosure. “The Lords Trevor and Amatin are well. They have only lost consciousness.” Then he bowed his head, and sighed. “The Waynhim dukkha is dead. May its soul at last find peace.”
“And forgive us,” High Lord Elena responded, “for we have failed.”
Breathing in his deep relief, Troy released Covenant. Covenant felt sudden stabs of pain in his upper arm. The throbbing made him aware that his own hands hurt. The intensity of his hold on the railing had cramped them until they felt crippled. The pain was sharp, but he welcomed it. He could see death in the broken limbs of the Waynhim. The bruises on his arms, the aching stiffness in his palms, were proof of life.
Dully he said, “They killed it.”
“What did you want them to do?” Troy retorted with ready indignation. “Keep it captive, alive and in torment? Let it go, and disclaim responsibility? Kill it in cold blood?”
“No.”
“Then this is your only choice. This was the only thing left to try.”
“No. You don’t understand.” Covenant tried to find the words to explain, but he could go no further. “You don’t understand what Foul is doing to them.” He pulled his cramped fingers away from the railing, and left the enclosure.
When he regained his rooms, he was still shaken. He did not think to close the door behind him, and the Warmark strode after him into the suite without bothering to ask admittance. But Covenant paid no attention to his visitor. He went straight to the tray of food, picked up the flask which stood beside the still steaming bowls, and drank deeply, as if he were trying to quench the heat of his blood. The springwine in the flask had a light, fresh, beery taste; it washed into him, clearing the dust from his internal passages. He emptied the flask, then remained still for a moment with his eyes shut, experiencing the sensation of the draft. When its clear light had eased some of the constriction in his chest, he seated himself at the table and began to eat.
“That can wait,” Troy said gruffly. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“So talk,” Covenant said around a mouthful of stew. In spite of his visitor’s insistent impatience, he kept on eating. He ate rapidly, acting on his decision before doubt could make him regret it.
Troy paced the room stiffly for a moment, then brought himself to take a seat opposite Covenant. He sat as he stood—with unbending uprightness. His gleaming, impenetrable, black sunglasses emphasized the tightness of the muscles in his cheeks and forehead. Carefully he said, “You’re determined to make this hard, aren’t you? You’re determined to make it hard for everyone.”
Covenant shrugged. As the springwine unfurled within him, he began to recover from what he had seen in the sacred enclosure. At the same time, he remembered his distrust of Troy. He ate with increasing wariness, watched the Warmark from under his eyebrows.
“Well, I’m trying to understand,” Troy went on in a constrained tone. “God knows I’ve got a better chance than anyone else here.”
Covenant put down the wooden fork and looked squarely at Troy.
“The same thing happened to us both.” To the obvious disbelief in Covenant’s face, he responded, “Oh, it’s all clear enough. A white gold wedding ring. Boots, jeans, and a T-shirt. You were talking on the phone with your wife. And the time before that—have I got this right?—you were hit by a car of some kind.”
“A police car,” Covenant murmured, staring at the Warmark.
“You see? I can recognize every detail. And you could do the same for my story. We both came here from the same place, the same world, Covenant. The real world.”
No, Covenant breathed thickly. None of this is happening.
“I’ve even heard of you,” Troy went on as if this argument would be incontrovertible. “I’ve read—your book was read to me. It made an impression on me.”
Covenant snorted. But he was disturbed. He had burned that book too late; it continued to haunt him.
“No, hold on. Your damn book was a best-seller. Hundreds of thousands of people read it. It was made into a movie. Just because I know about it doesn’t mean I’m a figment of your imagination. In fact, my presence here is proof that you are not going crazy. Two independent minds perceiving the same phenomenon.”
He said this with confident plausibility, but Covenant was not swayed. “Proof?” he muttered. “I would be amused to hear what else you call proof.”
“Do you want to hear how I came here?”
“No!” Covenant was suddenly vehement. “I want to hear why you don’t want to go back.”
For a moment, Troy sat still, facing Covenant with his sunglasses. Then he snapped to his feet, and started to pace again. Swinging tightly around on his heel at one end of the room, he said, “Two reasons. First, I like it here. I’m useful to something worth being useful to. The issues at stake in this war are the only ones I’ve ever seen worth fighting for. The life of the Land is beautiful. It deserves preservation. For once, I can do some good. Instead of spending my time on troop deployment, first-and second-strike capabilities, super-ready status, demoralization parameters, nuclear induction of lethal genetic events,” he recited bitterly, “I can help defend against a genuine evil. The world we came from—the ‘real’ world—hasn’t got such clear colors, no blue and black and green and red, ‘ebon ichor incarnadine viridian.’ Gray is the color of ‘reality.’
“Actually”—he dropped back into his chair, and his voice took on a more conversational tone—“I didn’t even know what gray was until I came here. That’s my second reason.”
He reached up with both hands and removed his sunglasses.
“I’m blind.”
His sockets were empty, orbless, lacking even lids and lashes. Blank skin grew in the holes wh
ere his eyes should have been.
“I was born this way,” the Warmark said, as if he could see Covenant’s astonishment. “A genetic freak. But my parents saw fit to keep me alive, and by the time they died I had learned various ways to function on my own. I got myself into special schools, got special help. It took a few extra years because I had to have most things read to me, but eventually I got through high school and college. After which my only real skill was keeping track of spatial relationships in my head. For instance, I could play chess without a board. And if someone described a room to me, I could walk through it without bumping into anything. Basically I was good at that because it was how I kept myself alive.
“So I finally got a job in a think tank with the Department of Defense. They wanted people who could understand situations without being able to see them—people who could use language to deal with physical facts. I was the expert on war games, computer hypotheticals, that sort of thing. All I needed was accurate verbal information on topography, troop strength, hardware and deployment, support capabilities—then leave the game to me. I always won. So what did it all amount to? Nothing. I was the freak of the group, that’s all.
“I took care of myself as well as I could. But for a place to live, I was pretty much at the mercy of what I could get. So I lived in this apartment house on the ninth floor, and one night it burned down. That is, I assume it burned down. The fire company still hadn’t come when my apartment caught. There was nothing I could do. The fire backed me to the wall, and finally I climbed out the window. I hung from the windowsill while the heat blistered my knuckles. I was determined not to let go because I had a very clear idea of how far above the ground nine floors is. Made no difference. After a while, my fingers couldn’t hold on anymore.
“The next thing I knew, I was lying on something that felt like grass. There was a cool breeze—but with enough warmth behind it to make me think it must be daylight. The only thing wrong was a smell of burned flesh. I assumed it was me. Then I heard voices—urgent, people hurrying to try to prevent something. They found me.
The Illearth War Page 7