The Illearth War t1cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  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. Growl, the stranger is in your care. Tell us of him.”

  Growl 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,” Growl 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 Growl 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 honour you?”

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

  “Then will you honour 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 thoughtfully; 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 Grey 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, forebearers 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."

  A silent clap of surprise echoed in the Close. Around the table, the Lords gaped in astonishment. Then Verement smacked the stone with the flat of his hand, and barked, "By the Seven! This whelp mocks us.

  “I think not,” answered Elena.

  Lord Mhoram nodded wearily, and sighed his agreement. “Our ignorance mocks us.”

  Quickly, Trevor asked, “Mhoram, do you know Amok? Have you seen him?”

  Lord Loerya seconded the question, but before Mhoram could gather his strength to respond, Lord Callindrill leaned forward to ask, “Amok, why were you made? What purpose do you serve?”

  “I wait,” said the boy. “And I answer.”

  Callindrill accepted this with a glum nod, as if it proved an unfortunate point, and said nothing more. After a pause, the High Lord said to Amok, “You bear knowledge, and release it in response to the proper questions. Have I understood you aright?”

  In answer, Amok bowed, shaking his head so that his gay hair danced like laughter about his head.

  “What knowledge is this?” she inquired.

  “Whatever knowledge you can ask for, and receive answer.”

  At this, Elena glanced ruefully around the table. “Well, that at least was not the proper question,” she sighed. “I think we will need to know Amok's knowledge before we can ask the proper questions:”

  Mhoram looked at her and nodded.

  “Excellent!” Verement's retort was full of suppressed ferocity. “So ignorance increases ignorance, and knowledge makes itself unnecessary.”

  Covenant felt the force of Verement's sarcasm. But Lord Amatin ignored it. Instead, she asked the youth, “Why have you come to us now?”

  “I felt the sign of readiness. The krill of Loric came to life. That is the appointed word. I answer as I was made to do.”

  As he mentioned the krill, Amok's inner cradled glory and dread seemed to become more visible. The sight gave Covenant a pang. Is this my fault, too? he groaned. What have I gotten myself into now? But the glimpse was mercifully brief; Amok's boyish good humour soon veiled it again.

  When it was past, Lord Mhoram climbed slowly to his feet, supporting himself on his staff like an old man. Standing beside the High Lord as if he were speaking for her, he said, “Then you have-Amok, hear me. I am seer and oracle for this Council. I speak words of vision. I have not seen you. You have come too soon. We did not give life to the krill. That was not our doing. We lack the lore for such work.”

  Amok's face became suddenly grave, almost frightened, showing for the first time some of the antiquity of his skull. “Lack the lore? Then I have erred. I have misserved my purpose. I must depart; I will do great harm else.”

  Quickly, he turned, slipped with deceptive speed between the Bloodguard, and darted up the stairs.

  When he was halfway to the doors, everyone in the Close lost sight of him. He vanished as if they had all taken their eyes off him for an instant, allowing him to hide. The Lords jumped to their feet in amazement. On the stairs, the pursuing Bloodguard halted, looked rapidly about them, and gave up the chase.

  “Swiftly!” Elena commanded. “Search for him! Find him!�
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  “What is the need?” Crowl replied flatly. “He is gone.”

  “That I see! But where has he gone? Perhaps he is still in Revelstone.”

  But Crowl only repeated, “He is gone.” Something in his certitude reminded Covenant of Bannor's subdued, unusual excitement. Are they in this together? he asked himself. My purpose? The words repeated dimly in his mind. My purpose?

  Through his mystification, he almost did not hear Troy whisper, “I thought-for a minute-I thought I saw him.”

  High Lord Elena paid no attention to the Warmark. The attitude of the Bloodguard seemed to baffle her, and she sat down to consider the situation. Slowly, she spread about her the melding of the Council, one by one bringing the minds of the other Lords into communion with her own. Callindrill shut his eyes, letting a look of peace spread over his face, and Trevor and Loerya held hands. Verement shook his head two or three times, then acquiesced when Mhoram touched him gently on the shoulder.

  When they all were woven together, the High Lord said, “Each of us must study this matter. War is near at hand, and we must not be taken unaware by such mysteries. But to you, Lord Amatin, I give the chief study of Amok and his secret knowledge. If it can be done, we must seek him out and learn his answers.”

  Lord Amatin nodded with determination in her small face.

  Then, like an unclasping of mental hands, the melding ended, and an intensity which Covenant could sense but not join faded from the air. In silence, the Lords took up their staffs, and began to leave.

  “Is that it?” Covenant muttered in surprise. “Is that all you're going to do?”

  “Watch it, Covenant,” Troy warned softly.

  Covenant shot a glare at the Warmark, but his black sunglasses seemed to make him impervious. Covenant turned toward the High Lord. “Is that all?” he insisted. “Don't you even want to know what's going on here?”

  Elena faced him levelly. “Do you know?”

  “No. Of course not.” He wanted to add, to protest, But Bannor does. But that was something else he could not say. He had no right to make the Bloodguard responsible. Stiffly, he remained silent.