The Illearth War t1cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  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, head 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 Lords-fire 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 the 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 colours, no blue and black and green and red, 'ebon ichor incarnadine viridian.' Grey is the colour of `reality.'

  “Actually”- he dropped back into his chair, and his voice took on a more conversational tone-“I didn't even know what grey 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 where 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 Defence. 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.

  "Later, I learned what had happened. A young student at the Loresraat had an inspiration about a piece of the Second Ward he was working on. All this was about five years ago. He thought he had figured out how to get help for the Land-how to summon you, actually. He wanted to try it, but the Lorewardens' refused to let him. Too dangerous. They took his idea to study, and sent to Revelstone for a Lord to help them decide how to test his theory.

  "Well, he didn't want to wait. He left the Loresraat and climbed a few miles up into the western hills of Trothgard until he thought he was far enough away to work in peace. Then he started the ritual. Somehow, the Lorewardens felt the power he was using, and went after him. But they were too late. He succeeded-in a manner of speaking. When he was done, I was lying there on the grass, and he-He had burned himself to death. Some of the Lorewardens think he caught the fire that should have killed me. As they said, it was too dangerous.

  “The Lorewardens took me in, cared for me, put hurtloam on my hands-even on my eyesockets. Before long, I began having visions. Colours and shapes started to jump at me out of the-out of whatever it was I was used to. This round, white-orange circle passed over me every day-but I didn't know what it was. I didn't even know it was `round.' I had no visual concept of `round.' But the visions kept getting stronger. Finally, Elena-she was the Lord who came down from Revelstone, only she wasn't High Lord then-she told me that I was learning to see with my mind-as if my brain were actually starting to see through my forehead. I didn't believe it, but she showed me. She demonstrated how my sense of spatial relationships fitted what I was `seeing,' and how my sense of touch matched the shapes around me.”

  He paused for a moment, remembering. Then he said strongly, "I'll tell you-I never think about going back. How can I? I'm here, and I can see. The Land's given me a gift I could never repay in a dozen lifetimes. I've got too big a debt-The first time I stood on the top of Revelwood and looked over the valley where the Rill and Llurallin rivers come together the first time in my life that I had ever seen-the first time, Covenant, I had ever even known that such sights existed-I swore I was going to win this war for the Land. Lacking missiles and bombs, there are other ways to fight. It took me a little while to convince the Lords-just long enough for me to outsmart all the best tacticians in the Wayward. Then they made me their Warmark. Now I'm just about ready. A difficult strategic problem-we're too far from the best line of defence, Landsdrop. And I haven't heard from my scouts. I don't know which way Foul is going to try to get at us. But I can beat him in a fair fight. I'm looking forward to it.

  “Go back? No. Never.”

  Hile Troy had been speaking in a level tone, as if he did not want to expose his emotions to his auditor. But Covenant could hear an undercurrent of enthusiasm in the words-a timbre of passion too unruly to be concealed.

  Now Troy leaned toward Covenant intently, and his ready indignation came back into his voice. “In fact, I can't understand you at all. Do you know that this whole place”-he indicated Revelstone with a brusque gesture-"revolves ar
ound you? White gold. The wild magic that destroys peace. The Unbeliever who found the Second Ward and saved the Staff of Law-unwillingly, I hear. For forty years, the Loresraat and the Lords have worked for a way to get you back. Don't get me wrong-they've done everything humanly possible to try to find other ways to defend the Land They've built up the Warward, racked their brains over the Lore, risked their necks on things like Mhoram's trip to Foul's Creche. And they're scrupulous. They insist that they accept your ambivalent position. They insist that they don't expect you to save them. All they want is to make it possible for the wild magic to aid the Land, so they won't have to reproach themselves for neglecting a possible hope. But I tell you-they don't believe there is any hope but you.

  "You know Lord Mhoram. You should have some idea of just how tough that man is. He's got backbone v he hasn't even touched yet. Listen. He screams in` his sleep. His dreams are that bad. I heard him once. He-I asked him the next morning what possessed him. In that quiet, kind voice of his, he told me that the Land would die if you didn't save it.

  “Well, I don't believe that Mhoram or no A Mhoram. But he isn't the only one. High Lord Elena eats, drinks, and sleeps Unbeliever. Wild magic and white gold, Covenant Ringthane. Sometimes I think r she's obsessed. She-”

  But Covenant could not remain silent any longer.: He could not stand to be held responsible for so much commitment. Roughly, he cut in, “Why?”

  “I don't know. She doesn't even know you.”

  “No. I mean, why is she High Lord-instead of Mhoram?”