The Illearth War t1cotc-2

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Beloved,” she said softly, “you are not well. What is amiss?”

  “Amiss?” He could not bring himself to look at her. His mouth was full of his bargain, and he had to swallow hard before he could say, “Don't mind me. I'm like that Forest down there. Sometimes I can't seem to help remembering.”

  In the silence, he sensed how little this answer satisfied her. She cared about him, wanted to understand him. But the rebirth of hope had restored the urgency of her duty. He knew that she could not spare the time to explore him now. He nodded morosely as she said, “I must go-the Land's need bears heavily upon me.” Then she added, “Will you remain here-await my return?”

  At last, he found the strength to turn and face her. He met the solemn set of her face, the displaced otherness of her gaze, and said gruffly, “Stay behind? And miss risking my neck again? Nonsense. I haven't had a chance like this since I was in Mount Thunder.”

  His sarcasm was sharper than he had intended, but she seemed to accept it. She smiled, touched him lightly on the arm with the fingers of one hand. “Come, then, beloved,” she said. “The Bloodguard are prepared. We must depart before Amok places other obstacles in our way.”

  He tried to smile in return, but the uncertain muscles of his face treated the attempt like a grimace. Muttering at his failure, he went with her back toward the Bloodguard and Amok. As they walked, he watched her sidelong, assessed her covertly. The strain of the past three days had been pushed into the background; her forthright stride and resolute features expressed new purpose, strength. The resurgence of hope enabled her to discount mere exhaustion. But her knuckles were tense as she gripped the Staff, and her head was thrust forward at a hungry angle. She made Covenant's bargain lie unquiet in him, as if he were an inadequate and unbinding grave.

  In his mind, he could still feel Rivenrock heaving. He needed steadier footing; nothing would save him if he could not keep his balance.

  Vaguely, he observed that the First Mark and Bannor were indeed ready to travel. They had bound all the supplies into bundles, and had tied these to their backs with clingor thongs. And Amok sparkled with eagerness; visions seemed to caper in his gay hair. The three of them gave Covenant an acute pang of unpreparedness. He did not feel equal to whatever lay ahead of the High Lord's party. A pulse of anxiety began to run through his weary mood. There was something that he needed to do; he needed to try to recover his integrity in some way. But he did not know how.

  He watched as the High Lord bade farewell to the Ranyhyn. They greeted her gladly, stamping their feet and nickering in pleasure at the prospect of activity after three days of patient waiting. She embraced each of the great horses, then stepped back, gripping the Staff, and saluted them in the Ramen fashion.

  The Ranyhyn responded by tossing their manes. They regarded her with proud, laughing eyes as she addressed them.

  "Brave Ranyhyn-first love of my life-I thank you for your service. We have been honoured. But now we must go on foot for a time. If we survive our path, we will call upon you to carry us back to Revelstone in victory or defeat, we will need the broad backs of your strength.

  "For the present, be free. Roam the lands your hearts and hooves desire. And if it should come to pass that we do not call-if you return unsummoned to the Plains of Ra-then, brave Ranyhyn, tell all your kindred of Myrha. She saved my life in the landslide, and gave her own for a lesser horse. Tell all the Ranyhyn that Elena daughter of Lena, High Lord by the choice of the Council, and holder of the Staff of Law, is proud of your friendship. You are the Tail of the Sky, Mane of the World."

  Raising the Staff, she cried, “Ranyhyn! Hail!”

  The great horses answered with a whinny that echoed off the face of Melenkurion Skyweir. Then they wheeled and galloped away, taking with them Covenant's mustang. Their hooves clattered like a roll of fire on the stone as they swept northward and out of sight around the curve of the mountain.

  When Elena turned back toward her companions, her sense of loss showed clearly in her face. In a sad voice, she said, “Come. If we must travel without the Ranyhyn, then let us at least travel swiftly.”

  At once, she turned expectantly to Amok. The ancient youth responded with an ornate bow, and started walking jauntily toward the place where the Skyweir's cliff joined the cleft of the plateau.

  Covenant tugged at his beard, and watched hopelessly as Elena and Morin followed Amok.

  Then, as abruptly as gasping, he exclaimed, “Wait!” The fingers of his right hand tingled in his beard. “Hang on.” The High Lord looked questioningly at him. He said, “I need a knife. And some water. And a mirror, if you've got one--I don't want to cut my throat.”

  Elena said evenly, “Ur-Lord, we must go. We have lost so much time-and the Land is in need.”

  “It's important,” he snapped. “Have you got a knife? The blade of my penknife isn't long enough.”

  For a moment, she studied him as if his conduct were a mystery. Then, slowly, she nodded to Morin. The First Mark unslung his bundle, opened it, and took out a stone knife, a leather waterskin, and a shallow bowl. These be handed to the Unbeliever. At once, Covenant sat down on the stone, filled the bowl, and began to wet his beard.

  He could feel the High Lord's presence as she stood directly before him-he could almost taste the tension with which she held the Staff-but he concentrated on scrubbing water into his whiskers. His heart raced as if he were engaged in something dangerous. He had a vivid sense of what he was giving up. But he was impelled by the sudden conviction that his bargain was false because it had not cost him enough. When he picked up the knife, he did so to seal his compromise with his fate.

  Elena stopped him. In a low, harsh voice, she said, “Thomas Covenant.”

  The way she said his name forced him to raise his head.

  “Where is the urgency in this?” She controlled her harshness by speaking quietly, but her indignation was tangible in her voice. “We have spent three days in delay and ignorance. Do you now mock the Land's need? Is it your deliberate wish to prevent this quest from success?”

  An angry rejoinder leaped to his lips. But the terms of his bargain required him to repress it. He bent his head again, splashed more water into his beard. “Sit down. I'll try to explain.”

  The High Lord seated herself cross-legged before him.

  He could not comfortably meet her gaze. And he did not want to look at Melenkurion Skyweir; it stood too austerely, coldly, behind her. Instead, he watched his hands as they toyed with the stone knife.

  “All right,” he said awkwardly. “I'm not the kind of person who grows beards. They itch. And they make me look like a fanatic. They-So I've been letting this one grow for a reason. It's a way of proving-a way to demonstrate so that even somebody as thickheaded and generally incoherent as I am can see it when I wake up in the real world and find that I don't have this beard I've been growing, then I'll know for sure that all this is a delusion. It's proof. Forty or fifty days' worth of beard doesn't just vanish. Unless it was never really there.”

  She continued to stare at him. But her tone changed.

  She recognized the importance of his self-revelation. “Then why do you now wish to cut it away?”

  He trembled to think of the risks he was taking. But he needed freedom, and his bargain promised to provide it. Striving to keep the fear of discovery out of his voice, he told her as much of the truth as he could afford.

  “I've made another deal-like the one I made with the Ranyhyn. I'm not trying to prove that the' Land isn't real anymore.” In the back of his mind, he pleaded, Please don't ask me anything else. I don't want to lie to you.

  She probed him with her eyes. “Do you believe, then-do you accept the Land?”

  In his relief, he almost sighed aloud. He could look at her squarely to answer this. “No. But I'm willing to stop fighting about it. You've done so much for me”

  “Ah, beloved!” she breathed with sudden intensity. “I have done nothing-I have only followed my heart.
Within my Lord's duty, I would do anything for you.”

  He seemed to see her affection for him in the very hue of her skin. He wanted to lean forward, touch her, kiss her, but the presence of the Bloodguard restrained him. Instead, he handed her the knife.

  He was abdicating himself to her, and she knew it. A glow of pleasure filled her face as she took the knife. “Do not fear, beloved,” she whispered. “I will preserve you.”

  Carefully, as if she were performing a rite, she drew close to him and began to cut his beard.

  He winced instinctively when the blade first touched him. But he gritted himself into stillness, locked his jaw, told himself that he was safer in her hands than in his own. He could feel the deadliness of the keen edge as it passed over his flesh-it conjured up images of festering wounds and gangrene-but he closed his eyes, and remained motionless.

  The knife tugged at his beard, but the sharpness of the blade kept the pull from becoming painful. And soon her fingers found his knotted jaw muscles. She stroked his clenching to reassure him. With an effort, he opened his eyes. She met his gaze as if she were smiling through a mist of love. Gently, she tilted back his head, and cleaned the beard away from.his neck with smooth, confident strokes.

  Then she was done. His bared flesh felt vivid in the air, and he rubbed his face with his hands, relishing the fresh texture of his cheeks and neck. Again, he wanted to kiss Elena. To answer her smile, he stood up and said, “Now I'm ready. Let's go.”

  She grasped the Staff of Law, sprang lightly to her feet. In a tone of high gaiety, she said to Amok, “Will you now lead us to the Seventh Ward?”

  Amok beckoned brightly, as if he were inviting her to a game, and started once more toward the place where the cleft of Rivenrock vanished under Melenkurion Skyweir. Morin quickly repacked his bundle, and placed himself behind Amok; Elena and Covenant followed the First Mark; and Bannor brought up the rear.

  In this formation, they began the last phase of their quest for the Power of Command.

  They crossed the plateau briskly: Amok soon reached the juncture of cliff and cleft. There he waved to his companions, grinned happily, and jumped into the crevice.

  Covenant gasped in spite of himself, and hurried with Elena to the edge. When they peered into the narrow blackness of the chasm, they saw Amok standing on a ledge in the opposite wall. The ledge began fifteen or twenty feet below and a few feet under the overhang of the mountain. It was not clearly visible. The blank stone and shadowed dimness of the cleft formed a featureless abyss. Amok seemed to be standing on darkness which led to darkness.

  “Hellfire!” Covenant groaned as he looked down. He felt dizzy already. “Forget it. Just forget I ever mentioned it.”

  “Come!” said Amok cheerfully. “Follow!” His voice sounded over the distant, subterranean gush of the river. With an insouciant stride, he moved away into the mountain. At once, the gloom swallowed him completely.

  Morin glanced at the High Lord. When she nodded, he leaped into the cleft, landed where Amok had been standing a moment before. He took one step to the side, and waited.

  “Don't be ridiculous,” Covenant muttered as if he were talking to the dank, chill breeze which blew out of the crevice. “I'm no Bloodguard. I'm just ordinary flesh and blood. I get dizzy when I stand on a chair. Sometimes I get dizzy when I just stand.”

  The High Lord was not listening to him. She murmured a few old words to the Staff, and watched intently as it burst into flame. Then she stepped out into the darkness. Morin caught her as her feet touched the ledge. She moved past him, and positioned herself so that the light of the Staff illuminated the jump for Covenant.

  The Unbeliever found Bannor looking at him speculatively.

  “Go on ahead,” said Covenant. “Give me time to get up my courage. I'll catch up with you in a year or two.” He was sweating again, and his perspiration stung the scraped skin of his cheeks and neck. He looked up at the mountain to steady himself, efface the effects of the chasm from his mind.

  Without warning, Bannor caught him from behind, lifted him, and carried him to the cleft.

  “Don't touch me!” Covenant sputtered. He tried to break free, but Bannor's grip was too strong. “By hell! I-!” His voice scaled into a yell as Bannor threw him over the edge.

  Morin caught him deftly, and placed him, wide-eyed and trembling, on the ledge at Elena's side.

  A moment later, Bannor made the jump, and the First Mark passed Covenant and Elena to stand between her and Amok. Covenant watched their movements through a stunned fog. Numbly, he pressed his back against the solid stone; and stared into the chasm as if it were a tomb. Some time seemed to pass before he noticed the High Lord's reassuring hold on his arm.

  “Don't touch me,” he repeated aimlessly. “Don't touch me.”

  When she moved away, he followed her automatically, turning his back on the sunlight and open sky above the cleft.

  He rubbed his left shoulder against the stone wall, and kept close to Elena, stayed near her light. The Staff s incandescence cast a viridian aura over the High Lord's party, and reflected garishly off the dark, flat facets of the stone. It illuminated Amok's path without penetrating the gloom ahead. The ledge-never more than three feet wide-moved steadily downward. Above it, the ceiling of the cleft slowly expanded, took on the dimensions of a cavern. And the cleft itself widened as if it ran toward a prodigious hollow in the core of Melenkurion Skyweir.

  Covenant felt the yawning rent in the mountain rock as if it were beckoning to him, urging him seductively to accept the drowsy abandon of vertigo, trust the chasm's depths. He pressed himself harder against the stone, and clung to Elena's back with his eyes. Around him, darkness-and massed weight squeezed the edges of the Staffs light. And at his back, he could hear the hovering vulture wings of his private doom. Gradually, he understood that he was walking into a crisis.

  Underground! he rasped harshly at his improvidence. He could not forget how he had fallen into a crevice under Mount Thunder. That experience had brought him face-to-face with the failure of his old compromise, his bargain with the Ranyhyn. Hellfire! He felt he had done nothing to ready himself for an ordeal of caves.

  Ahead of him, the High Lord followed Morin and Amok. They adjusted themselves to her pace, and she moved as fast as she safely could on the narrow ledge. Covenant was hard pressed to keep up with her. Her speed increased his apprehension; it made him feel that the rift was spreading its jaws beside him. He laboured fearfully down the ledge. It demanded all his concentration.

  He had no way to measure duration or distance had nothing with which to judge time except the accumulation of his fear and strain and weariness-but gradually the character of the cavern's ceiling changed. It spread out like a dome. After a while, Elena's fire lit only one small arc of the stone. Around it, spectral shapes peopled the darkness. Then the rough curve of rock within the Staff's light became gnarled and pitted, like the slow clenching of a frown on the cave's forehead. And finally the frown gave way to stalactites. Then the upper air bristled with crooked old shafts and spikes-poised spears and misdriven nails-pending lamias-slow, writhed excrescences of the mountain's inner sweat. Some of these had fiat facets which reflected the Staff's fire in fragments, casting it like a chiaroscuro into the recessed groins of the cavern. And others leaned toward the ledge as if they were straining ponderously to strike the heads of the human interlopers.

  For some distance, the stalactites grew thicker, longer, more intricate, until they filled the dome of the cavern. When Covenant mustered enough fortitude to look out over the crevice, he seemed to be gazing into a blue-lit, black, inverted foresta packed stand of gnarled and ominous old trees with their roots in the ceiling. They created the impression that it was possible, on the sole trail of the ledge, for him to lose his way.

  The sensation excoriated his stumbling fear. When Elena came abruptly to a stop, he almost hung his arms around her.

  Beyond her in the Staffs velure light, he saw that a massive s
talactite had angled downward and attached itself to the lip of the ledge. The stalactite hit there as if it had been violently slammed into place. Despite its ancientness, it seemed to quiver with the force of impact. Only a strait passage remained between the stalactite and the wall.

  Amok halted before this narrow gap. He waited until his companions were close behind him. Then, speaking over his shoulder in an almost reverential tone, he said, "Behold Damelon's Door-entryway to the Power of Command. For this reason among others, none may approach the Power in my absence. The knowledge of this unlocking is contained in none of High Lord Kevin's Wards. And any who dare Damelon's Door without this unlocking will not find the

  Power. They will wander forever torn and pathless in the wilderness beyond. Now hear me. Pass swiftly through the entryway when it is opened. It will not remain open long."

  Elena nodded intently. Behind her, Covenant braced himself on her shoulder with his right hand. He had a sudden inchoate feeling that this was his last chance to turn back, to recant or undo the decisions which had brought him here. But the chance-if it was a chance-passed as quickly as it had come. Amok approached the Door.

  With slow solemnity, the youth extended his right hand, touched the blank plane of the gap with his index finger. In silence he held his finger at that point, level with his chest.

  A fine yellow filigree network began to grow in the air. Starting from Amok's fingertip, the delicate web of light spread outward in the plane of the gap. Like a skein slowly crystallizing into visibility, it expanded until it filled the whole Door.

  Amok commanded, “Come,” and stepped briskly through the web.

  He did not break the delicate strands of light. Rather, he disappeared as he touched them. Covenant could see no trace of him on the ledge beyond the Door.

  Morin followed Amok. He, too, vanished as he came in contact with the yellow web.