Her scorn hurt him; but he made an effort to suppress his anger. “We’ll get out of here tonight.”
“How?” she demanded bluntly.
“Tonight”—he could not silence his weariness—“I’ll try to show Sunder why he ought to let us go.”
A moment later, someone pushed two large stoneware bowls of water past the curtain. Linden reacted to them as if they were the only explicable things in the room. She shuttled toward them on her knees, lowered her head to drink deeply.
When Covenant joined her, she ordered him to use the bowl she had used. He obeyed to avoid an argument; but her reasons became clear when she told him to put his hands in the still-full bowl. The water might reduce their swelling, allow more blood past the bonds—perhaps even loosen the bonds themselves.
Apparently his wrists were tied with leather; as he followed her instructions, the cool fluid palliated his discomfort; and a short while later he felt a tingle of recovery in his palms. He tried to thank her with a smile; but she did not respond. When he left the water, she took his place, soaked her own hands for a long time.
Gradually Covenant’s attention drifted away from her. The sun was beginning to slant toward afternoon; a bright hot sliver of light dissected by iron bars lay on the floor. He rested his head, and thought about the Sunstone.
Orcrest—a stone of power. The former masters of stone-lore had used orcrest to wield the Earthpower in a variety of ways—to shed light, break droughts, test truth. If Sunder’s Sunstone were indeed orcrest—
But what if it were not? Covenant returned to the dread which had struck him in Nassic’s hut. The world is not what it was. If there were no Earthpower—
Something broken. He could not deny his anguish. He needed orcrest, needed its power; he had to have a trigger. He had never been able to call up wild magic of his own volition. Even in the crisis of his final confrontation with the Despiser, he would have been lost utterly without the catalyst of the Illearth Stone. If the Sunstone were not truly orcrest—
He wished that he could feel his ring; but even if his hands had not been bound, his fingers would have been too numb. Leper, he muttered. Make it work. Make it. The sunlight became a white cynosure, growing until it throbbed like the pain in his head. Slowly his mind filled with a brightness more fearsome and punishing than any night. He opposed it as if he were a fragment of the last kind dark which healed and renewed.
Then Linden was saying, “Covenant. You’ve slept enough. It’s dangerous if you have a concussion. Covenant.”
The dazzle in his brain blinded him momentarily; he had to squint to see that the room was dim. Sunset faintly colored the air. The sky beyond the window lay in twilight.
He felt stiff and groggy, as if his life had congealed within him while he slept. His pain had burrowed into the bone; but it, too, seemed imprecise—stupefied by fatigue. At Linden’s urging, he drank the remaining water. It cleared his throat, but could not unclog his mind.
For a long time, they sat without speaking. Night filled the valley like an exudation from the mountains; the air turned cool as the earth lost its warmth to the clear heavens. At first, the stars were as vivid as language—an articulation of themselves across the distance and the unfathomable night. But then the sky lost its depth as the moon rose.
“Covenant,” Linden breathed, “talk to me.” Her voice was as fragile as ice. She was near the limit of her endurance.
He searched for something that would help them both, fortify her and focus him.
“I don’t want to die like this,” she grated. “Without even knowing why.”
He ached because he could not explain why, could not give her his sense of purpose. But he knew a story which might help her to understand what was at stake. Perhaps it was a story they both needed to hear. “All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you how this world came to be created.”
She did not answer. After a moment, he began.
Even to himself, his voice sounded bodiless, as if the dark were speaking for him. He was trying to reach out to her with words, though he could not see her, and had no very clear idea of who she was. His tale was a simple one; but for him its simplicity grew out of long distillation. It made even his dead nerves yearn as if he were moved by an eloquence he did not possess.
In the measureless heavens of the universe, he told her, where life and space were one, and the immortals strode through an ether without limitation, the Creator looked about him, and his heart swelled with the desire to make a new thing to gladden his bright children. Summoning his strength and subtlety, he set about the work which was his exaltation.
First he forged the Arch of Time, so that the world he wished to make would have a place to be. And then within the Arch he formed the Earth. Wielding the greatness of his love and vision as tools, he made the world in all its beauty, so that no eye could behold it without joy. And then upon the Earth he placed all the myriads of its inhabitants—beings to perceive and cherish the beauty which he made. Striving for perfection because it was the nature of creation to desire all things flawless, he made the inhabitants of the Earth capable of creation, and striving, and love for the world. Then he withdrew his hand, and beheld what he had done.
There to his great ire he saw that evil lay in the Earth: malice buried and abroad, banes and powers which had no part in his intent. For while he had labored over his creation, he had closed his eyes, and had not seen the Despiser, the bitter son or brother of his heart, laboring beside him—casting dross into the forge, adding malignancy to his intent.
Then the Creator’s wrath shook the heavens, and he grappled with the son or brother of his heart. He overthrew the Despiser and hurled him to the Earth, sealing him within the Arch of Time for his punishment. Thus it became for the inhabitants of the Earth as it was with the Creator; for in that act he harmed the tiling he loved, and so all living hearts were taught the power of self-despite. The Despiser was abroad in the Earth, awakening ills, seeking to escape his prison. And the Creator could not hinder him, for the reach of any immortal hand through the Arch would topple Time, destroying the Earth and freeing the Despiser. This was the great grief of the Creator, and the unending flaw and sorrow of those who lived and strove upon the Earth.
Covenant fell silent. Telling this story, essentially as he had heard it ten years ago, brought back many things to him. He no longer felt blurred and ossified. Now he felt like the night, and his memories were stars: Mhoram, Foamfollower, Bannor, the Ranyhyn. While he still had blood in his veins, air in his lungs, he would not turn his back on the world which had given birth to such people.
Linden started to ask a question; but the rustling of the curtain interrupted her. Sunder entered the room carrying an oil lamp. He set it on the floor and seated himself cross-legged in front of it. Its dim, yellow light cast haggard shadows across his visage. When he spoke, his voice wore ashes, as if he had been bereaved.
“I, too, have heard that tale,” he said thickly. “It was told to me by Nassic my father. But the tale told in the Rede of the na-Mhoram is another altogether.”
Covenant and Linden waited. After a moment, the Graveler went on. “In the Rede it is told that the Earth was formed as a jail and tormenting-place for the Lord of wickedness—him whom we name a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells. And life was placed upon the Earth—men and women, and all other races—to wreak upon a-Jeroth his proper doom. But time and again, throughout the ages, the races of the Land failed their purpose. Rather than exacting pain from a-Jeroth, meting out upon him the Master’s just retribution, they formed alliances with the Lord, spared him in his weakness and bowed to him in his strength. And always”—Sunder shot a glance at Covenant, faltered momentarily—“the most heinous of these betrayals have been wrought by men born in the image of the First Betrayer, Berek, father of cowardice. Halfhanded men.
“Therefore in his wrath the Master turned his face from the Land. He sent the Sunbane upon us, as chastisement for treachery, so that we would
remember our mortality, and become worthy again to serve his purpose. Only the intercession of the Clave enables us to endure.”
Protests thronged in Covenant. He knew from experience that this conception of the Land was false and cruel. But before he could try to reply, Linden climbed suddenly to her feet. Her eyes were feverish in the lamplight, afflicted by fear and outrage and waiting. Her lips trembled. “A Master like that isn’t worth believing in. But you probably have to do it anyway. How else can you justify killing people you don’t even know?”
The Graveler surged erect, faced her extremely. The conflict in him made him grind his teeth. “All the Land knows the truth which the Clave teaches. It is manifest at every rising of the sun. None deny it but Nassic my father, who died in mind before his body was slain, and you, who are ignorant!”
Covenant remained on the floor. While Linden and Sunder confronted each other, he drew all the strands of himself together, braided anger, empathy, determination, memory to make the cord on which all their lives depended. Part of him bled to think of the hurt he meant to inflict on Sunder, the choice he meant to extort; part raged at the brutality which had taught people like Sunder to think of their own lives as punishment for a crime they could not have committed; part quavered in fear at the idea of failure, at the poverty of his grasp on power. When Linden began to retort to the Graveler, he stopped her with, a wrench of his head. I’ll do it, he thought silently to her. If it has to be done. Shifting his gaze to Sunder, he asked, “How’s your mother?”
A spasm contorted the Graveler’s face; his hands bunched into knots of pain and uselessness, “Her death is plain.” His eyes were dull, wounded, articulating the frank torment of his heart. “I must shed her blood with yours at the sun’s rising.”
Covenant bowed his head for a moment in tacit acknowledgment. Then, deliberately, he created a space of clarity within himself, set his questions and fears aside. All right, he murmured. Leper. It has to be done.
Taking a deep breath, he rose to his feet, faced the Stonedownor.
“Sunder,” he said softly, “do you have a knife?”
The Graveler nodded as if the question had no meaning.
“Take it out.”
Slowly Sunder obeyed. He reached to his back, slipped a long iron poniard out of his belt. His fingers held it as if they had no idea how to use it.
“I want you to see that you’re safe,” Covenant said. “You have a knife. My hands are tied. I can’t hurt you.”
Sunder stared back at Covenant, transfixed by incomprehension.
All right, Covenant breathed. Leper. Do it now. His heartbeat seemed to fill his chest, leaving no room for air. But he did not waver.
“Get out that piece of orcrest. The Sunstone.”
Again Sunder obeyed. Covenant’s will held him.
Covenant did not permit himself to glance down at the stone. He was marginally aware that Linden regarded him as if he were no longer sane. A shudder of apprehension threatened his clarity. He had to grit his teeth to keep his voice steady, “Touch me with it.”
“Touch—?” Sunder murmured blankly.
“Touch my forehead.”
Doubt pinched the corners of Sunder’s eyes. His shoulders hunched as he tightened his grip on the knife, the Sunstone.
Do it.
The Graveler’s hand seemed to move without volition. The orcrest passed Covenant’s face, came to rest cool and possible against his tense brow.
His attention dropped through him to his ring, seeking for the link between orcrest and white gold. He remembered standing in sunlight and desperation on the slopes of Mount Thunder; he saw Bannor take his hand, place his ring in contact with the Staff of Law. A trigger. He felt the detonation of power.
You are the white gold.
The silence in the room vibrated. His lips stretched back from his teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut against the strain.
A trigger.
He did not want to die, did not want the Land to die. Lord Foul abhorred all life.
Fiercely he brought the orcrest and the white gold together in his mind, chose power.
A burst of argent sprang off his forehead.
Linden let out a stricken gasp. Sunder snatched back the orcrest. A gust of force blew out the lamp.
Then Covenant’s hands were free. Ignoring the sudden magma of renewed circulation, he raised his arms in front of him, opened his eyes.
His hands blazed the color of the full moon. He could feel the passion of the fire, but it did him no harm.
The flames on his left swiftly faded, died. But his right hand grew brighter as the blaze focused on his ring, burning without a sound.
Linden stared at him whitely, wildly. Sunder’s eyes echoed the argent fire like a revelation too acute to bear.
You are stubborn yet. Yes! Covenant panted. You don’t begin to know how stubborn.
With a thought, he struck the bonds from Linden’s wrists. Then he reached for the Sunstone.
As he took it from Sunder’s stunned fingers, a piercing white light exploded from the stone. It shone like a sun in the small room. Linden ducked her head. Sunder covered his eyes with his free arm, waved his poniard uncertainly.
“Wild magic,” Covenant said. His voice felt like flame in his mouth. The return of blood to his arms raked his nerves like claws. “Your knife means nothing. I have the wild magic. I’m not threatening you. I don’t want to hurt anybody.” The night had become cold, yet sweat streamed down his face. “That’s not why I’m here. But I won’t let you kill us.”
“Father!” Sunder cried in dismay. “Was it true? Was every, word that you spoke a word of truth?”
Covenant sagged. He felt that he had accomplished his purpose; and at once a wave of fatigue broke through him. “Here.” His voice was hoarse with strain. “Take it.”
“Take—?”
“The Sunstone. It’s yours.”
Torn by this vision of power as if it turned the world he had always known to chaos, Sunder stretched out his hand, touched the bright orcrest. When its light did not burn him, he closed his fingers on it as if it were an anchor.
With a groan, Covenant released the wild magic. Instantly the fire went out as if he had severed it from his hand. The Sunstone was extinguished; the room plunged into midnight.
He leaned back against the wall, hugged his pounding arms across his chest. Flares danced along his sight, turning slowly from white to orange and red. He felt exhausted; but he could not rest. He had silenced his power so that the Graveler would have a chance to refuse him. Now he had to meet the cost of his risk. Roughly, he forced out words. “I want to get away from here. Before anything else happens. Before that Raver tries something worse. But we need help. A guide. Somebody who knows the Sunbane. We can’t survive alone. I want you.”
From out of the darkness, Sunder answered as if he were foundering, “I am the Graveler of Mithil Stonedown. My people hold me in their faith. How shall I betray my home to aid you?”
“Sunder,” Covenant replied, striving to convey the extremity of his conviction, “I want to help the Land. I want to save it all. Including Mithil Stonedown.”
For a long moment, the Graveler was silent. Covenant clinched his chest, did not allow himself to beg for Sunder’s aid; but his heart beat over and over again, Please; I need you.
Abruptly Linden spoke in a tone of startling passion. “You shouldn’t have to kill your own mother.”
Sunder took a deep quivering breath. “I do not wish to shed her blood. Or yours. May my people forgive me.”
Covenant’s head swam with relief. He hardly heard himself say, “Then let’s get started.”
SEVEN: Marid
For a moment, there was silence in the small room. Sunder remained still, as if he could not force his reluctant bones to act on his decision. Out of the darkness, he breathed thickly, “Thomas Covenant, do not betray me.”
Before Covenant could try to reply, the Graveler turned, eased the curtain as
ide.
Through the entryway, Covenant saw moonlight in the open center of the Stonedown. Quietly he asked, “What about guards?”
“There are none here.” Sunder’s voice was a rigid whisper. “Lives to be shed are left in the charge of the Graveler. It is fitting that one who will commit sacrifice should keep vigil with those whose blood will be shed. The Stonedown sleeps.”
Covenant clenched himself against his fatigue and the Graveler’s tone. “What about outside the village?”
“Those guards we must evade.”
Grimly Sunder slipped out of the room.
Linden began to follow the Stonedownor. But at Covenant’s side she stopped, said softly, “Do you trust him? He already regrets this.”
“I know,” Covenant responded. In the back of his mind, he cursed the acuity of her hearing. “I wouldn’t trust anybody who didn’t regret a decision like this.”
She hesitated for a moment. She said bitterly, “I don’t think regret is such a virtue.” Then she let herself out into the night.
He stood still, blinking wearily at the dark. He felt wan with hunger; and the thought of what lay ahead sapped the little strength remaining to him. Linden’s severity hurt him. Where had she learned to deny herself the simple humanity of regret?
But he had no time for such things. His need to escape was absolute. Woodenly he followed his companions out of the room.
After the blackness behind him, the moon seemed bright. Sunder and Linden were distinct and vulnerable against the pale walls of the houses, waiting for him. When he joined them, the Graveler turned northward immediately, began moving with barefoot silence between the dwellings. Linden shadowed him; and Covenant stayed within arm’s reach of her back.
As they neared the outer houses, Sunder stopped. He signed for Covenant and Linden to remain where they were. When Covenant nodded, Sunder crept away back into the Stonedown.
Covenant tried to muffle his respiration. At his side, Linden stood with her fists clenched. Her lips moved soundlessly as if she were arguing with her fear. The night was chilly; Covenant’s anxiety left a cold trail down the small of his back.
The Wounded Land Page 14