The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  And that was not the only argument. This seduction of responsibility was Foul’s doing. It was the means by which Lord Foul attempted to ensure the destruction of the Land. When inadequate men assumed huge burdens, the outcome could only serve Despite. Covenant had no doubt that Troy was inadequate. Had he not been summoned to the Land by Atiaran in her despair? And as for himself—he, Thomas Covenant, was as incapable of power as if such a thing did not exist. For him it could not. If he pretended otherwise, then the whole Land would become just another leper in Lord Foul’s hands.

  By the time he reached his rooms, he knew that he would have to do something, take some action to establish the terms on which he had to stand. He would have to find or make some discrepancy, some incontrovertible proof that the Land was a delusion. He could not trust his emotions; he needed logic, an argument as inescapable as the law of leprosy.

  He paced the suite for a time as if he were searching the stone floor for an answer. Then, on an impulse, he jerked open the door and looked out into the hallway. Bannor was there, standing watch as imperturbably as if the meaning of his life were beyond question. Stiffly Covenant asked him into the sitting room.

  When Bannor stood before him, Covenant reviewed quickly what he knew about the Bloodguard. They came from a race, the Haruchai, who lived high in the Westron Mountains beyond Trothgard and the Land. They were a warlike and prolific people, so it was perhaps inevitable that at some time in their history they would send an army east into the Land. This they had done during the early years of Kevin’s High Lordship. On foot and weaponless—the Haruchai did not use weapons, just as they did not use lore; they relied wholly on their own physical competence—they had marched to Revelstone and challenged the Council of Lords.

  But Kevin had refused to fight. Instead, he had persuaded the Haruchai to friendship.

  In return, they had gone far beyond his intent. Apparently, the Ranyhyn, and the Giants, and Revelstone itself—as mountain dwellers, the Haruchai had an intense love of stone and bounty—had moved them more deeply than anything in their history. To answer Kevin’s friendship, they had sworn a Vow of service to the Lords; and something extravagant in their commitment or language had invoked the Earth power, binding them to their Vow in defiance of time and death and choice. Five hundred of their army had become the Bloodguard. The rest had returned home.

  Now there were still nearly five hundred. For every Bloodguard who died in battle was sent on his Ranyhyn up through Guards Gap into the Westron Mountains, and another Haruchai came to take his place. Only those whose bodies could not be recovered, such as Tuvor, the former First Mark, were not replaced.

  Thus the great anomaly of the Bloodguard’s history was the fact that they had survived the Ritual of Desecration intact even though Kevin and his Council and all his works had been destroyed. They had trusted him. When he had ordered them all into the mountains without explaining his intent, they had obeyed. But afterward they had seen reason to doubt that their service was truly faithful. They had sworn the Vow; they should have died with Kevin in Kiril Threndor under Mount Thunder—or prevented him from meeting Lord Foul there in his despair, prevented him from uttering the Ritual which brought the age of the Old Lords to its destruction. They were faithful to an extreme that defied their own mortality, and yet they had failed in their promise to preserve the Lords at any cost to themselves.

  Covenant wanted to ask Bannor what would happen to the Bloodguard if they ever came to believe that their extravagant fidelity was false, that in their Vow they had betrayed both Kevin and themselves. But he could not put such a question into words. Bannor deserved better treatment than that from him. And Bannor, too, had lost his wife— She had been dead for two thousand years.

  Instead, Covenant concentrated on his search for a discrepancy.

  But he soon knew he would not find one by questioning Bannor. In his flat, alien voice, the Bloodguard gave brief answers that told Covenant what he both wanted and did not want to hear concerning the survivors of the Quest for the Staff of Law. He had already learned what had happened to Foamfollower and Lord Mhoram. Now Bannor told him that High Lord Prothall, who had led the Quest, had resigned his Lordship even before his company had returned to Revelstone. He had not been able to forget that the old Hearthrall Birinair had died in his place. And he had felt that in regaining the Staff he had fulfilled his fate, done all that was in him. He had committed the Staff and the Second Ward to Lord Mhoram’s care, and had ridden away to his home in the Northrop Climbs. The inhabitants of Lord’s Keep never saw him again.

  So upon Mhoram’s return Osondrea had assumed the High Lordship. Until her death, she had used her power to rebuild the Council, expand the Wayward, and grow Revelwood, the new home of the Loresraat.

  After returning to Revelstone, Quaan—the Warhaft of the Eoman that had accompanied Prothall and Mhoram—had also tried to resign. He had been ashamed to bring only half of his warriors back alive. But High Lord Osondrea, knowing his worth, had refused to release him, and soon he had returned to his duties. Now he was the Hiltmark of the Wayward, Hile Troy’s second-in-command. Though his hair was white and thin—though his gaze seemed rubbed smooth by age and use—still he was the same strong, honest man he had always been. The Lords respected him. In Troy’s absence they would willingly have trusted Quaan to lead the Wayward.

  Covenant sighed sourly, and let Bannor go. Such information did not meet his need. Clearly he was not going to find any easy solutions to his dilemma. If he wanted proof of delusion, he would have to make it for himself.

  He faced the prospect with trepidation. Anything he might do would take a long time to bear fruit. It would not become proof, brookless and unblinkable, until his delusion ended—until he had returned to his real life. In the meantime, it would do little to sustain him. But he had no choice; his need was urgent.

  He had available three easy ways to create a definitive discontinuity: he could destroy his clothes, throw away his penknife—the only thing he had in his pockets—or grow a beard. Then, when he awakened, and found himself clothed, or still possessed of his penknife, or clean-shaven, he would have his proof.

  The obvious discrepancy of his healed forehead he did not trust. Past experience made him fear that he would be reinjured shortly before this delusion ended. But he could not bring himself to act on his first two alternatives. The thought of destroying his tough, familiar apparel made him feel too vulnerable, and the expedient of discarding his penknife was too uncertain. Cursing at the way his plight forced him to abandon all the strict habits upon which his survival depended, he decided to give up shaving.

  When at last he summoned the courage to leave his rooms and go into the Keep in search of breakfast, he brandished the stubble on his cheeks as if it were a declaration of defiance.

  Bannor guided him to one of the great refectories of Revelstone, then left him alone to eat. But before he was done, the Bloodguard came striding back to his table. There was an extra alertness in the spring of Bannor’s steps—a tightness that looked oddly like excitement. But when he addressed Covenant, his flat, shrouded eyes expressed nothing, and the repressed lilt of his voice was as inflectionless as ever.

  “Ur-Lord, the Council asks that you come to the Close. A stranger has entered Revelstone. The Lords will soon meet with him.”

  Because of Bannor’s heightened alertness, Covenant asked cautiously, “What kind of stranger?”

  “Ur-Lord?”

  “Is it—is it someone like me? or Troy?”

  In his confusion, Covenant did not immediately perceive the certitude of Bannor’s reply. But as he followed the Bloodguard out of the refectory and down through Revelstone, he began to hear something extra in the denial, something more than Bannor’s usual confidence. That No resembled Bannor’s stride; it was tenser in some way. Covenant could not fathom it. As they descended a broad, curved stair through several levels of the Keep, he forced himself to ask, “What’s so urgent about this stranger? What
do you know about him?”

  Bannor ignored the question.

  When they reached the Close, they found that High Lord Elena, Lord Verement, and four other Lords had already preceded them. The High Lord was at her place at the head of the curved table, and the Staff of Law lay on the stone before her. To her right sat two men, then two women. Verement was on her left beyond two empty seats. Eight Bloodguard sat behind them in the first row of the gallery, but the rest of the Close was empty. Only First Mark Morin and the Hearthralls Tohrm and Borillar occupied their positions in back of the High Lord.

  An expectant hush hung over the chamber. For an instant, Covenant half expected Elena to announce the start of the war.

  Bannor guided him to a seat at the Lords’ table one place down from Lord Verement. The Unbeliever settled himself in the stone chair, rubbing the stubble of his new beard with one hand as if he expected the Council to know what it meant. The eyes of the Lords were on him, and their gaze made him uncomfortable. He felt strangely ashamed of the fact that his fingertips were alive to the touch of his whiskers.

  “Ur-Lord Covenant,” the High Lord said after a moment, “while we await Lord Mhoram and Warmark Troy, we should make introduction. We have been remiss in our hospitality. Let me present to yon those of the Council whom you do not know.”

  Covenant nodded, glad of anything that would turn her disturbing eyes away from him, and she began on her left. “Here is Lord Verement Shetra-mate, whom you have seen.” Verement glowered at his hands, did not glance at Covenant.

  Elena turned to her right. The man next to her was tall and broad; he had a wide forehead, a watchful face draped with a warm blond beard, and an expression of habitual gentleness. “Here is Lord Callindrill Faer-mate. Faer his wife is a rare master of the ancient suru-pa-maerl craft.” Lord Callindrill smiled half shyly at Covenant, and bowed his head.

  “At his side,” the High Lord went on, “are the Lords Trevor and Loerya.” Lord Trevor was a thin man with an air of uncertainty, as if he were not sure that he belonged at the Lords’ table; but Lord Loerya

  his wife looked solid and matronly, conscious that she contained power. “They have three daughters who gladden all our hearts.” Both Lords replied with smiles, but where his was both surprised and proud, hers was calm, confident.

  Elena concluded, “Beyond them is Lord Amatin daughter of Matin. Only a year ago she passed the tests of the Sword and Staff at the Loresraat, and joined the Council. Now her work is with the schools of Revelstone—the teaching of the children.” In her turn, Lord Amatin bowed gravely. She was slight, serious, and hazel-eyed, and she watched Covenant as if she were studying him.

  After a pause, the High Lord began the ritual ceremonies of welcoming the Unbeliever to Lord’s Keep, but she stopped short when Lord Mhoram entered the Close. He came through one of the private doors behind the Lords’ table. There was weariness in his step and febrile concentration in his eyes, as if he had spent all night wrestling with darkness. In his fatigue, he needed his staff to hold himself steady as he took his seat at Elena’s left.

  All the Lords watched him as he sat there, breathing vacantly, and a wave of support flowed from their minds to his. Slowly their silent help strengthened him. The hot glitter faded from his gaze, and he began to see the faces around him.

  “Have you met success?” Elena asked softly. “Can you withdraw the krill?”

  “No.” Mhoram’s lips formed the word, but he made no sound.

  “Dear Mhoram,” she sighed, “you must take greater care of yourself. The Despiser marches against us. We will need all your strength for the coming war.”

  Through his weariness, Mhoram smiled his crooked, humane smile. But he did not speak.

  Before Covenant could muster the resolve to ask Mhoram what he hoped to accomplish with the krill, the main doors of the Close opened, and Warmark Troy strode down the stairs to the table. Hiltmark Quaan came behind him. While Troy went to sit opposite Covenant, Quaan made his way to join Morin, Tohrm, and Borillar. Apparently Troy and Quaan had just come from the Wayward. They had not taken the time to set aside their swords, and their scabbards clashed dully against the stone as they seated themselves.

  As soon as they were in their places, High Lord Elena began. She spoke softly, but her clear voice carried perfectly throughout the Close. “We are gathered thus without forewarning because a stranger has come to us. Crowl, the stranger is in your care. Tell us of him.”

  Crowl was one of the Bloodguard. He arose from his seat near the broad stairs of the chamber, and faced the High Lord impassively to make his report. “He passed us. A short time ago, he appeared at the gate of Revelstone. No scout or sentry saw his approach. He asked if the Lords were within. When he was answered, he replied that the High Lord wished to question him. He is not as other men. But he bears no weapon, and intends no ill. We chose to admit him. He awaits you.”

  In a sharp voice like the barking of a hawk, Lord Verement asked, “Why did the scouts and sentries fail?”

  “The stranger was hidden from our eyes,” Crowl replied levelly. “Our watch did not falter.” His unfluctuating tone seemed to assert that the alertness of the Bloodguard was beyond question.

  “That is well,” said Verement. “Perhaps one day the whole army of the Despiser will appear unnoticed at our gates, and we will still be sleeping when Revelstone falls.”

  He was about to say more, but Elena interposed firmly, “Bring the stranger now.”

  As the Bloodguard at the top of the stairs swung open the high wooden doors, Amatin asked the High Lord, “Does this stranger come at your request?”

  “No. But I do now wish to question him.”

  Covenant watched as two more Bloodguard came into the Close with the stranger between them. He was slim, simply clad in a cream-colored robe, and his movements were light, buoyant. Though he was nearly as tall as Covenant, he seemed hardly old enough to have his full growth. There was a sense of boyish laughter in the way his curly hair bounced as he came down the steps, as if he were amused by the precautions taken against him. But Covenant was not amused. With the new dimension of his sight, he could see why Crowl had said that the boy was “not as other men.” Within his young, fresh flesh were bones that seemed to radiate oldness—not age—they were not weak or infirm—but rather antiquity. His skeleton carried this oldness, this aura of time, as if he were merely a vessel for it. He existed for it rather than in spite of it. The sight baffled Covenant’s perceptions, made his eyes ache with conflicting impressions of dread and glory as he strained to comprehend.

  When the boy reached the floor of the Close, he stepped near to the graveling pit, and made a cheerful obeisance. In a high, young voice, he exclaimed, “Hail, High Lord!”

  Elena stood and replied gravely, “Stranger, be welcome in the Land—welcome and true. We are the Lords of Revelstone, and I am Elena daughter of Lena, High Lord by the choice of the Council, and holder of the Staff of Law. How may we honor you?”

  “Courtesy is like a drink at a mountain stream. I am honored already.”

  “Then will you honor us in turn with your name?”

  With a laughing glance, the boy said, “It may well come to pass that I will tell you who I am.”

  “Do not game with us,” Verement cut in. “What is your name?”

  “Among those who do not know me, I am named Amok.”

  Elena controlled Verement with a swift look, then said to the youth, “And how are you named among those who know you?”

  “Those who know me have no need of my name.”

  “Stranger, we do not know you.” An edge came into her quiet voice. “These are times of great peril in the Land, and we can spend neither time nor delicacy with you. We require to know who you are.”

  “Ah, then I fear I cannot help you,” replied Amok with an impervious gaiety in his eyes.

  For a moment, the Lords met his gaze with stiff silence. Verement’s thin lips whitened; Callindrill frowned thoughtfull
y; and Elena faced the boy with low anger flushing her cheeks, though her eyes did not lose their odd, dislocated focus. Then Lord Amatin straightened her shoulders and said, “Amok, where is your home? Who are your parents? What is your past?”

  Lightly Amok turned and gave her an unexpected bow. “My home is Revelstone. I have no parents. And my past is both wide and narrow, for I have wandered everywhere, waiting.”

  A surge ran through the Council, but no one interrupted Amatin. Studying the boy, she said, “Your home is Revelstone? How can that be? We have no knowledge of you.”

  “Lord, I have been away. I have feasted with the Elohim, and ridden Sandgorgons. I have danced with the Dancers of the Sea, and teased brave Kelenbhrabanal in his grave, and traded apothegms with the Gray Desert. I have waited.”

  Several of the Lords stirred, and a gleam came into Loerya’s eyes, as if she recognized something potent in Amok’s words. They all watched him closely as Amatin said, “Yet everything that lives has ancestry, forebears of its own kind. Amok, what of your parentage?”

  “Do I live?”

  “It appears not,” Verement growled. “Nothing mortal would try our patience so.”

  “Peace, Verement,” said Loerya. “There is grave import here.” Without taking her eyes off Amok, she asked, “Are you alive?”

  “Perhaps. While I have purpose, I move and speak. My eyes behold. Is this life?”

  His answer confused Lord Amatin. Thinly, as if her uncertainty pained her, she said, “Amok, who made your”

  Without hesitation, Amok replied, “High Lord Kevin son of Loric son of Damelon son of Berek Heartthew the Lord-Fatherer.”