White Gold Wielder t2cotc-3

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Giant troth Revelstone, ancient ward—

  Heart and door of Earthfriend's main:

  Preserve the true with Power's sword,

  Thou ages-Keeper, mountain-reign.”

  At that, the First turned toward him; and for an instant her face was concentrated with weeping as if he had touched her deep Giantish love of stone. Almost immediately she recovered her sternness-but not before he had seen how absolutely she was ready now to serve him. Gruffly, she said, “Thomas Covenant, I have titled you Giantfriend, but it is not enough. You are the Earthfriend. No other name suffices.” Then she went and put her arms around her husband.

  But Covenant groaned to himself, Earthfriend. God help me! That title belonged to Berek Halfhand, who had fashioned the Staff of Law and founded the Council of Lords. It did not become a man who carried the destruction of the Arch of Time in his envenomed hands. The man who had brought to ruin all Berek's accomplishments.

  He glared back up at the Keep. The sun had begun to set behind the Westron Mountains, and its light in his eyes Harnpered his sight; but he discerned no sign that the watchtower was occupied. He had received the same impression the last time he had been here-and had distrusted it then as he did now. Though the outer gates were broken, the tower could still serve as a vital part of the Keep's defences. He would have to be prepared for battle the moment he set foot in that tunnel. If the Clave did not seek to attack him before then.

  His shoulders hunching like anticipations of brutality, he turned away from the Keep and retreated a short distance into the vegetation to an area of rocks where the company could camp for the night.

  Shortly, his companions gathered around him. The Giants left their delighted study of Revelstone to clear the ground, start a fire, and prepare food. Sunder and Hollian cast repeated glances like wincing toward the Keep, where the ill of then lives had its centre, and where they had once nearly been slain; but they sat with Covenant as if he were a source of courage. The Haruchai arranged themselves protectively around the region. Findail stood like a shadow at the edge of the growing firelight.

  Linden's disquiet was palpable. Vexation creased her brows; her gaze searched the twilight warily Covenant guessed that she was feeling the nearness of the Raver; and he did not know how to comfort her. During all the Land's struggles against Despite, no one had ever found a way to slay a Raver. While Lord Foul endured, his servants clung to life. The Forestal of Garroting Deep, Caer-Caveral’s creator and former master, had demonstrated that Herem or Sheol or Jehannum might be sorely hurt or reduced if the bodies they occupied were killed and they were not allowed to flee. But only the body died; the Raver's spirit survived Covenant could not believe that the Land would ever be free of Gibbon's possessor. And he did not know what else to offer that might ease Linden.

  But then she named the immediate cause of her unease; and it was not the na-Mhoram. Turning to Covenant, she said unexpectedly, “Vain's gone.”

  Taken aback, he blinked at her for a moment. Then he surged to his feet, scanned the camp and the surrounding jungle.

  The Demondim-spawn was nowhere in sight.

  Covenant wheeled toward Cail. Flatly, the Haruchai said, “He has halted a stone's throw distant.” He nodded back the way the company had come. “At intervals we have watched him, but he does not move. Is it your wish that he should be warded?”

  Covenant shook his head, groping for comprehension. When he and Vain had approached Revelstone looking for Linden, Sunder, and Hollian, the Clave had tried to keep Vain out and had hurt him in the process. Yet he had contrived his way into the Keep, found the heels of the Staff of Law. But after that he had obeyed the Riders as if he feared what they could do to him. Was that it? Having obtained what he wanted from Revelstone, he now kept his distance so that the Clave would not be able to damage him again?

  But how was it possible that the Demondim-spawn could be harmed at all, when the Sunbane did not affect him and even Grim-fire simply rolled off his black skin?

  “It's because of what he is,” Linden murmured as though Covenant's question were tangible in the air. They had discussed the matter at other times; and she had suggested that perhaps the Clave knew more about Vain than the company did. But now she had a different answer. “He's a being of pure structure. Nothing but structure-like a skeleton without any muscle or blood or life. Rigidness personified. Anything that isn't focused straight at him can't touch him.” Slowly, as if she were unconscious of what she was doing, she turned toward Revelstone, lifted her face to the lightless Keep. “But that's what the Sunbane does. What the Clave does. They corrupt Law-disrupt structure. Desecrate order. If they tried hard enough”- she was glowering as if she could see Gibbon waiting in his malice and his glee- “they could take him apart completely, and there wouldn't be enough of him left to so much as remember why he was made in the first place. No wonder he doesn't want to come any closer.”

  Covenant held his breath, hoping that she would go on-that in this mood of perception or prophecy she would name the purpose for which Vain had been created. But she did not.

  By degrees, she lowered her gaze. “Damn that bastard anyway,” she muttered softly. “Damn him to hell.”

  He echoed her in silence. Vain was such an enigma that Covenant continually forgot him-forgot how vital he was, to the hidden machinations of the Elohim if not to the safety of the Earth. But here Findail had not hesitated to leave the Demondim-spawn's side; and his anguished yellow eyes showed no interest in anything except the hazard of Covenant's fire. Covenant felt a prescient itch run through his forearm. Wincing, he addressed Cail.

  “Don't bother. He'll take care of himself. He always has.”

  Then he went sourly back to his seat near the fire.

  The companions remained still as they ate supper, chewing their separate thoughts with their food. But when they were done, the First faced Covenant across the smoking blaze and made a gesture of readiness. “Now, Earthfriend.” Her tone reminded him of a polished blade, eager for use. “Let us speak of this proud and dire Keep.”

  Covenant met her gaze and grimaced in an effort to hold his personal extremity beyond the range of Linden's percipience.

  “It is a doughty work,” the First said firmly. “In it the Unhomed wrought surpassingly well. Its gates have been broken by a puissance that challenges conception-but if I have not been misled, there are gates again beyond the tower. And surely you have seen that the walls will not be scaled. We would be slain in the attempt. The Clave is potent, and we are few. Earthfriend,” she concluded as if she were prepared to trust whatever explanation he gave, “how do you purpose to assail this donjon?”

  In response, he scowled grimly. He had been expecting that question-and dreading it. If he tried to answer it as if he were sane, his resolve might snap like a rotten bone. His friends would be appalled. And perhaps they would try to stop him. Even if they did not, he felt as certain as death that their dismay would be too much for him.

  Yet some reply was required of him. Too many lives depended on what he meant to do. Stalling for courage, he looked toward Hollian. His voice caught in his throat as he asked, "What kind of sun are we going to have tomorrow?”

  Dark hair framed her mien, and her face itself was smudged with the dirt of long travel; yet by some trick of the firelight-or of her nature-she appeared impossibly clear, her countenance unmuddied by doubt or despair. Her movements were deft and untroubled as she accepted the krill from Sunder, took out her lianar, and invoked the delicate flame of her foretelling.

  After a moment, fire bloomed from her wand. Its colour was the dusty hue of the desert sun.

  Covenant nodded to himself. A desert sun. By chance or design, he had been granted the phase of the Sunbane he would have chosen for his purpose. On the strength of that small grace, he was able to face the First again.

  “Before we risk anything else, I'm going to challenge Gibbon. Try to get him to fight me personally. I don't think he'll do it,” though sur
ely the Raver would covet the white ring for itself and might therefore be willing to defy its master's will, “but if he does, I can break the Clave's back without hurting anybody else.” Even though Gibbon held the whole force of the Banefire; Covenant was ready for that as well.

  But the First was not content. “And if he does not?” she asked promptly. “If he remains within his fastness and dares us to harm him?”

  Abruptly, Covenant lurched to his feet. Linden's gaze followed him with a flare of alarm as she caught a hint of what drove him; but he did not let her speak. Pieces of moonlight filtered through the dense leaves; and beyond the trees the moon was full-stretched to bursting with promises he could not keep. Above him, the walls and battlements of Revelstone held the silver light as if they were still beautiful. He could not bear it Though he was choking, he rasped out, “I'll think of something.” Then he fled the camp, went blundering through the brush until he reached its verge on the foothills.

  The great Keep towered there, as silent and moon ridden as a cairn for all the dreams it had once contained. No illumination of life showed from it anywhere. He wanted to cry out at it, What have they done to you? But he knew the stone would not hear him. It was deaf to him, blind to its own desecration-as helpless against evil as the Earth itself. The thought that he might hurt it made him tremble.

  Cail attended him like an avatar of the night's stillness. Because he had passed the limit of what he could endure, he turned to the Haruchai and whispered hoarsely, “I'm going to sleep here. I want to be alone. Don't let any of them near me.”

  He did not sleep. He spent the night staring up at the city as though it were the last barrier between his hot grief and Lord Foul's triumph. Several times, he heard his friends approach him through the brush. Each time, Cail turned them away. Linden protested his refusal, but could not breach it.

  That solitary and intimate fidelity enabled Covenant to hang on until dawn.

  He saw the light first on the main Keep's rim beyond the parapets of the watchtower, while the shaft of the Banefire shot toward the east. This daybreak had the hue of deserts, and the sun gave the high grey stone a brown tinge. Once again, Hollian had foretold the Sunbane accurately. As he levered his strain-sore and weary bones upright, he thought of the eh-brand with an odd pang. Married by the child she bore, she and Sunder had grown steadily closer to each other-and Covenant did not know how to heal the wound between himself and Linden.

  Behind him, he heard Linden accost Cail a second time. When the Haruchai denied her again, she snapped in exasperation, “He's got to eat. He's still at least that human.” Her voice sounded ragged, as if she also had not slept. Perhaps the air around Revelstone was too full of the taste of Ravers to permit her to sleep. Gibbon had shown her the part of herself which had arisen in hunger to take her mother's life. Yet now, in this fatal place, she was thinking of Covenant rather than of herself. She would have forgiven him long ago-if he had ever given her the chance.

  Stiffly, as if all his muscles had been calcified by the night and his long despair, he started up the hill toward Revelstone.

  He could not face Linden now, feared to let her look at him almost as much as he feared the massive granite threat of the Keep. Concealment was no longer possible for him; and he dreaded how she would react to what she saw.

  The light was on the watchtower, colouring it like a wilderland and dropping rapidly toward the foothills. At the edges of his vision on either side, he saw the treetops start to melt; but the centre of his sight was filled by the tower. Its embrasures and abutments were empty, and the darkness behind them made them look like eyes from which the light of life had been extinguished. Light of life and desecration, he thought vaguely, as if he were too weak with inanition and fear to be troubled by contradictions. He knew how to deal with them: he had found that answer in the thronehall of Foul's Creche, when the impossibility of believing the Land true and the impossibility of believing it false had forced him to take his stand on the still point of strength at the centre of his vertiginous plight. But such comprehension was of no use to him now. All the anger had gone out of him during the night; and he ascended toward the gaping mouth of Revelstone like a husk for burning.

  Yet the apparent desertion of the city made him uneasy. Was it possible that the Clave had fled-that his mere approach had driven the Riders into hiding? No. The virulence of the Banefire's beam gave no indication that it had been left untended. And Lord Foul would not have permitted any withdrawal. What better victory for the Despiser than that Covenant should bring down the Arch in conflict with the Clave?

  Lord Foul had said. At the last there will be but one choice for you, and you will make it in all despair. He had promised that, and he had laughed.

  Something that might have been power stirred in Covenant. His hands curled into fists, and he went on upward.

  The sun laid his shadow on the bare dirt in front of him. Its heat gripped the back of his neck, searching for the fiber of his will in the same way that it would reduce all the Upper Land's monstrous verdure to grey sludge and desert. He seemed to see himself spread out for sacrifice on the ground-exposed for the second time to a blow as murderous as the knife which had pierced his chest, stabbed the hope out of his life. An itch like a faint scurry of vermin spread up his right forearm. Unconsciously, he quickened his pace.

  Then he reached the level ground at the base of the tower, and the tunnel stood open before him among its mined gates. The passage was as dark as a grave until it met the dim illumination reflecting into the courtyard from the face of the main Keep. Dimly, he saw the inner gates at the far side of the court. They were sealed against him.

  Involuntarily, he looked back down toward the place where his companions had camped. At first the sun was in his eyes, and he could descry nothing except the eviscerated grey muck which stretched out to the horizons like a sea as the Sunbane denatured life from the terrain. But when he shaded his sight, he saw the company.

  His friends stood in a cluster just beyond the edge of the sludge. The First and two Haruchai were restraining Honninscrave. Pitchwife held Linden back.

  Covenant swung around in pain to face the tunnel again.

  He did not enter it. He was familiar with the windows in its ceiling which allowed the Keep's defenders to attack anyone who walked that throat. And he did not raise his voice. He was instinctively certain now that Revelstone was listening acutely, in stealth and covert fear. He sounded small against the dusty air, the great city and the growing desert as he spoke.

  “I've come for you. Gibbon. For you. If you come out, I'll let the rest of the Riders live.” Echoes mocked him from the tunnel, then subsided. “If you don't, I'll take this place apart to find you.

  “You know I can do it. I could've done it the last time-and I'm stronger now.” You are more dangerous now than you've ever been. “Foul doesn't think you can beat me. He's using you to make me beat myself. But I don't care about that anymore. Either way, you're going to die. Come out and get it over with.”

  The words seemed to fail before they reached the end of the passage. Revelstone loomed above him like the corpse of a city which had been slain ages ago. The pressure of the sun drew a line of bitter sweat down his spine.

  And a figure appeared in the tunnel. Black against the reflection of the courtyard, it moved outward. Its feet struck soft echoes of crepitation from the stone.

  Covenant tried to swallow-and could not. The desert sun had him by the throat.

  A pair of hot pains transfixed his forearm. The scars gleamed like fangs. An invisible darkness flowed out of the passage toward him, covering his fire with the pall of venom. The sound of steps swelled.

  Then sandaled feet and the fringe of a red robe broached the sunshine; and Covenant went momentarily faint with the knowledge that his first gambit had failed. Light ran swiftly up the lines of the stark scarlet fabric to the black chasuble which formalized the robe. Hands appeared, empty of the characteristic rukh, the black iron
rod like a sceptre with an open triangle fixed atop it, which a Rider should have held. Yet this was surely a Rider. Not Gibbon: the na-Mhoram wore black. He carried a crozier as tall as himself. The habitual beatitude or boredom of his round visage was punctured only by the red bale of his eyes. The man who came out to meet Covenant was not Gibbon.

  A Rider, then. He appeared thick of torso, though his ankles and wrists were thin, and his bearded cheeks had been worn almost to gauntness by audacity or fear. Wisps of wild hair clung like fanaticism to his balding skull. His eyes had a glazed aspect.

  He held his palms open before him as if to demonstrate that he had come unarmed.

  Covenant wrestled down his weakness, fought a little moisture into his throat so that he could speak. In a tone that should have warned the Rider, he said, “Don't waste my time. I want Gibbon.”

  “Halfhand, I greet you,” the man replied. His voice was steady, but it suggested the shrillness of panic. “Gibbon na-Mhoram is entirely cognizant of you and will waste neither time nor life in your name. What is your purpose here?”

  Impressions of danger crawled between Covenant's shoulder-blades. His mouth was full of the copper taste of fear. The Rider's trunk appeared, unnaturally thick; and his robe seemed to move slightly of its own accord as if the cloth were seething Covenant's scars began to burn like rats gnawing at his flesh. He hardly heard himself reply, “This has gone on too long. You make the whole world stink. I'm going to put a stop to it.”

  The Rider bared his teeth-a grin that failed. His gaze did not focus on Covenant. “Then I must tell you that the na-Mhoram does not desire speech with you. His word has been given to me to speak, if you will hear it.”

  Covenant started to ask. What word is that? But the question never reached utterance. With both hands, the Rider unbelted the sash of his robe. In prescient dread, Covenant watched the Rider open his raiment to the sun.