Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “It’s gone,” he interrupted.

  “—but I have not the touch of a rhadhamaerl,” she went on. “Have you felt this before?”

  “Once. Earlier.”

  “Ah,” she sighed, “would that I were a Lord, and knew what to do. There must be an evil working deep in the Earth—a great evil, indeed, if the Andelainian Hills are not altogether safe. But the ill is new yet, or timid. It does not remain. We must hope to outrun it. Ah, weak! Our speed becomes less sufficient with each passing day.”

  She pulled her robe tightly about her, strode away into the evening. She and Covenant traveled on without a halt until night was thick around them, and the waning moon was high in its path among the stars.

  The next day, Covenant felt convulsions of ill through the grass more often. Twice during the morning, and four times during the afternoon and evening, one foot or the other recoiled with sudden ferocity from the turf, and by the time Atiaran stopped for the night, his nerves from his legs to the roots of his teeth were raw and jangling. He felt intensely that such sore spots were an affront to, even a betrayal of, Andelain, where every other touch and line and hue of sky and tree and grass and hill was redolent with richness. Those attacks, pangs, stings made him involuntarily wary of the ground itself, as if the very foundation of the Earth had been cast into doubt.

  On the fifth day since Soaring Woodhelven, he felt the wrongness in the grass less often, but the attacks showed an increase in virulence. Shortly after noon, he found a spot of ill that did not vanish after he first touched it. When he set his foot on it again, he felt a quiver as if he had stepped on an ache in the ground. The vibration rapidly numbed his foot, and his jaws hurt from clenching his teeth, but he did not back away. Calling to Atiaran, he knelt on the grass and touched the earth’s sore with his hands.

  To his surprise, he felt nothing.

  Atiaran explored the ground herself, then considered him with a frown in her eyes. She also felt nothing.

  But when he probed the spot with his foot, he found that the pain was still there. It scraped his brain, made sweat bead on his forehead, drew a snarl from his throat. As the ache spread through his bones, sending cold numbness up his leg, he bent to slide his fingers under the sole of his boot. But his hands still felt nothing; only his feet were sensitive to the peril.

  On an impulse, he threw off one boot, removed his sock, and placed his bare foot on the spot of ill. This time, the discrepancy was even more surprising. He could feel the pain with his booted foot, but not with his bare one. And yet his sensations were perfectly clear; the wrong arose from the ground, not from his boot.

  Before he could stop himself, he snatched off his other boot and sock, and cast them away from him. Then he dropped heavily to sit on the grass, and clutched his throbbing head in both hands.

  “I have no sandals for you,” Atiaran said stiffly. “You will need footwear before this journey has reached its end.”

  Covenant hardly heard her. He felt acutely that he had recognized a danger, identified a threat which had been warping him for days without his knowledge.

  Is that how you’re going to do it, Foul? he snarled. First my nerves come back to life. Then Andelain makes me forget—Then I throw away my boots. Is that it? Break down all my defenses one at a time so that I won’t be able to protect myself? Is that how you’re going to destroy me?

  “We must go on,” Atiaran said. “Decide what you will do.”

  Decide? Bloody hell! Covenant jerked himself to his feet. Fuming, he grated through his teeth, “It’s not that easy.” Then he stalked over to retrieve his boots and socks.

  Survive.

  He laced his feet into his boots as if they were a kind of armor.

  For the rest of the day, he shied away from every hint of pain in the ground, and followed Atiaran grimly, with a clenched look in his eyes, striving against the stinging wrong to preserve his sovereignty, his sense of himself. And toward evening his struggle seemed to find success. After a particularly vicious attack late in the afternoon, the ill pangs stopped. He did not know whether or not they would return, but for a while at least he was free of them.

  That night was dark with clouds, and Atiaran was forced to make camp earlier than usual. Yet she and Covenant got little rest. A light, steady rain soaked their blankets, and kept them awake most of the night, huddling for shelter under the deeper shadow of an enshrouding willow.

  But the next morning—the sixth of their journey from Soaring Woodhelven—dawned bright and full of Andelainian cheer. Atiaran met it with haste and anticipation in her every move; and the way she urged Covenant along seemed to express more friendliness, more companionship, than anything she had done since the beginning of their sojourn. Her desire for speed was infectious; Covenant was glad to share it because it rescued him from thinking about the possibility of further attacks of wrong. They began the day’s travel at a lope.

  The day was made for traveling. The air was cool, the sun clean and encouraging; the path led straight and level; springy grass carried Atiaran and Covenant forward at every stride. And her contagious eagerness kept him trotting behind her league after league. Toward midday, she slowed her pace to eat treasure-berries along the way; but even then she made good speed, and as evening neared she pushed their pace into a lope again.

  Then the untracked path which the Woodhelvennin had taught her brought them to the end of a broad valley. After a brief halt while she verified her bearings, she started straight up a long, slow hillside that seemed to carry on away eastward for a great distance. She chose a plumb-line direction which took her directly between two matched Gilden trees a hundred yards above the valley, and Covenant followed her toiling lope up the hill without question. He was too tired and out of breath to ask questions.

  So they ascended that hillside—Atiaran trotting upward with her head held high and her hair fluttering, as if she saw fixed before her the starry gates of heaven, and Covenant plodding, pumping behind her. At their backs, the sun sank in a deep exhalation like the release of a long-pent sigh. And ahead of them the slope seemed to stretch on into the sky.

  Covenant was dumbfounded when Atiaran reached the crest of the hill, stopped abruptly, grabbed his shoulders, and spun him around in a circle, crying joyfully, “We are here! We are in time!”

  He lost his balance and fell to the turf. For a moment he lay panting, with hardly enough energy to stare at her. But she was not aware of him. Her eyes were fixed down the eastern slope of the hill as she called in a voice short-breathed by fatigue and exultation and reverence, “Banas Nimoram! Ah, glad heart! Glad heart of Andelain. I have lived to this time.”

  Caught by the witchery of her voice, Covenant levered himself to his feet and followed her gaze as if he expected to behold the soul of Andelain incarnate.

  He could not refrain from groaning in the first sag of his disappointment. He could see nothing to account for Atiaran’s rapture, nothing that was more healthy or precious than the myriad vistas of Andelain past which she had rushed unheeding. Below him, the grass dipped into a smooth wide bowl set into the hills like a drinking cup for the night sky. With the sun gone, the outlines of the bowl were not clear, but starlight was enough to show that there were no trees, no bushes, no interruptions to the smoothness of the bowl. It looked as regular as if the surface of the grass had been sanded and burnished. On this night, the stars seemed especially gay, as if the darkness of the moon challenged them to new brightness. But Covenant felt that such things were not enough to reward his bone-deep fatigue.

  However, Atiaran did not ignore his groan. Taking his arm, she said, “Do not judge me yet,” and drew him forward. Under the branches of the last tree on the bowl’s lip, she dropped her pack and sat against the trunk, facing down the hill. When Covenant had joined her, she said softly, “Control your mad heart, Unbeliever. We are here in time. This is Banas Nimoram, the dark of the moon on the middle night of spring. Not in my generation has there been such a night, such a time
of rareness and beauty. Do not measure the Land by the standard of yourself. Wait. This is Banas Nimoram, the Celebration of Spring—finest rite of all the treasures of the Earth. If you do not disturb the air with anger, we will see the Dance of the Wraiths of Andelain.” As she spoke, her voice echoed with rich harmonics as if she were singing; and Covenant felt the force of what she promised, though he did not understand. It was not a time for questions, and he set himself to wait for the visitation.

  Waiting was not difficult. First Atiaran passed bread and the last of her springwine to him, and eating and drinking eased some of his weariness. Then, as the night deepened, he found that the air which flowed up to them from the bowl had a lush, restful effect. When he took it far into his lungs, it seemed to unwind his cares and dreads, setting everything but itself behind him and lifting him into a state of calm suspense. He relaxed in the gentle breeze, settled himself more comfortably against the tree. Atiaran’s shoulder touched his with warmth, as if she had forgiven him. The night deepened, and the stars gleamed expectantly, and the breeze sifted the cobwebs and dust from Covenant’s heart—and waiting was not difficult.

  The first flickering light came like a twist of resolution which brought the whole night into focus. Across the width of the bowl, he saw a flame like the burn of a candle—tiny in the distance, and yet vivid, swaying yellow and orange as clearly as if he held the candlestick in his hands. He felt strangely sure that the distance was meaningless; if the flame were before him on the grass, it would be no larger than his palm.

  As the Wraith appeared, Atiaran’s breath hissed intently between her teeth, and Covenant sat up straighter to concentrate more keenly.

  With a lucid, cycling movement, the flame moved down into the bowl. It was not halfway to the bottom when a second fire arrived on the northern rim. Then two more Wraiths entered from the south—and then, too suddenly to be counted, a host of flames began tracing their private ways into the bowl from all directions. Some passed within ten feet of Atiaran and Covenant on either side, but they seemed unconscious of the observers; they followed their slow cycles as if each were alone in the Hills, independent of every gleam but its own. Yet their lights poured together, casting a dome of gold through which the stars could barely be seen; and at moments particular Wraiths seemed to bow and revolve around each other, as if sharing a welcome on their way toward the center.

  Covenant watched the great movement that brought thousands of the flames, bobbing at shoulder height, into the bowl, and he hardly dared to breathe. In the excess of his wonder, he felt like an unpermitted spectator beholding some occult enactment which was not meant for human eyes. He clutched his chest as if his chance to see the Celebration to its end rode on the utter silence of his respiration, as if he feared that any sound might violate the fiery conclave, scare the Wraiths away.

  Then a change came over the gathered flames. Up into the sky rose a high, scintillating, wordless song, an arching melody. From the center of the bowl, the private rotations of the Wraiths resolved themselves into a radiating, circling Dance. Each Wraith seemed finally to have found its place in a large, wheel-like pattern which filled half the bowl, and the wheel began to turn on its center. But there were no lights in the center; the wheel turned on a hub of stark blackness which refused the glow of the Wraiths.

  As the song spread through the night, the great circle revolved—each flame dancing a secret, independent dance, various in moves and sways—each flame keeping its place in the whole pattern as it turned. And in the space between the inner hub and the outer rim, more circles rolled, so that the whole wheel was filled with many wheels, all turning. And no Wraith kept one position long. The flames flowed continuously through their moving pattern, so that as the wheel turned, the individual Wraiths danced from place to place, now swinging along the outer rim, now gyring through the middle circles, now circling the hub. Every Wraith moved and changed places constantly, but the pattern was never broken—no hiatus of misstep gapped the wheel, even for an instant—and every flame seemed both perfectly alone, wandering mysteriously after some personal destiny through the Dance, and perfectly a part of the whole. While they danced, their light grew stronger, until the stars were paled out of the sky, and the night was withdrawn, like a distant spectator of the Celebration.

  And the beauty and wonder of the Dance made of Covenant’s suspense a yearning ache.

  Then a new change entered the festival. Covenant did not realize it until Atiaran touched his arm; her signal sent a thrill of awareness through him, and he saw that the wheel of the Wraiths was slowly bending. The rest of the wheel retained its shape, and the black core did not move. Gradually the turning circle became lopsided as the outer Wraiths moved closer to the onlookers. Soon the growing bulge pointed unmistakably at Covenant.

  In response, he seemed to feel their song more intensely—a keening, ecstatic lament, a threnody as throbbingly passionate as a dirge and as dispassionate as a sublime, impersonal affirmation. Their nearing flames filled him with awe and fascination, so that he shrank within himself but could not move. Cycle after cycle, the Wraiths reached out toward him, and he clasped his hands over his knees and held himself still, taut-hearted and utterless before the fiery Dancers.

  In moments, the tip of this long extension from the circle stood above him, and he could see each flame bowing to him as it danced by. Then the rim of the extension dipped, and the pace of the Dance slowed, as though to give each Wraith a chance to linger in his company. Soon the fires were passing within reach of his hand. Then the long arm of the Dance flared, as if a decision had run through the Dancers. The nearest Wraith moved forward to settle on his wedding band.

  He flinched, expecting the fire to burn him, but there was no pain. The flame attached itself to the ring as to a wick, and he felt faintly the harmonies of the Celebration song through his finger. As the Wraith held to his ring, it danced and jumped as if it were feeding excitedly there. And slowly its color turned from flaming yellow-orange to silver-white.

  When the transformation was complete, that Wraith flashed away, and the next took its place. A succession of fires followed, each dancing on his ring until it became argent; and as his anxiety relaxed, the succession grew faster. In a short time, the line of glistening white Wraiths had almost reached back to the rest of the Dance. Each new flame presented itself swiftly, as if eager for some apotheosis, some culmination of its being, in the white gold of Covenant’s ring.

  Before long, his emotion became too strong to let him remain seated. He surged to his feet, holding out his ring so that the Wraiths could light on it without lowering themselves.

  Atiaran stood beside him. He had eyes only for the transformation which his ring somehow made possible, but she looked away across the Dance.

  What she saw made her dig her fingers like claws of despair into his arm. “No! By the Seven! This must not be!”

  Her cry snatched at his attention; his gaze jumped across the bowl.

  “There! That is the meaning of the ill your feet have felt!”

  What he saw staggered him like a blow to the heart.

  Coming over the northeast rim of the bowl into the golden light was an intruding wedge of blackness, as pitch-dark and un-illuminable as the spawning ground of night. The wedge cut its narrow way down toward the Dance, and through the song of the flames, it carried a sound like a host of bloody feet rushing over clean grass. Deliberately, agonizingly, it reached inward without breaking its formation. In moments, the tip of the darkness sliced into the Dance and began plunging toward its center.

  In horror, Covenant saw that the Dance did not halt or pause. At the wedge’s first touch, the song of the Wraiths dropped from the air as if it had been ripped away by sacrilege, leaving no sound behind it but a noise like running murder. But the Dance did not stop. The flames went on revolving as if they were unconscious of what was happening to them, helpless. They followed their cycles into the wedge’s path and vanished as if they had fallen into an a
byss. No Wraith emerged from that darkness.

  Swallowing every light that touched it, the black wedge gouged its way into the Celebration.

  “They will all die!” Atiaran groaned. “They cannot stop—cannot escape. They must dance until the Dance is done. All dead—every Wraith, every bright light of the Land! This must not be. Help them! Covenant, help them!”

  But Covenant did not know how to help. He was paralyzed. The sight of the black wedge made him feel as nauseated as if he were ob— across a gulf of numbness his fingers being eaten by a madman—nauseated and enraged and impotent, as if he had waited too long to defend himself, and now had no hands with which to fight back. The knife of Triock slipped from his numb fingers and disappeared in darkness.

  How—?

  For an instant, Atiaran dragged furiously at him. “Covenant! Help them!” she shrieked into his face. Then she turned and raced down into the valley to meet the wedge.

  The Wraiths—!

  Her movement broke the freeze of his horror. Snatching up the staff of Baradakas, he ducked under the flames and sped after her, holding himself bent over to stay below the path of the Wraiths. A madness seemed to hasten his feet; he caught Atiaran before she was halfway to the hub. Thrusting her behind him, he dashed on toward the penetrating wedge, spurred by a blind conviction that he had to reach the center before the blackness did.

  Atiaran followed, shouting after him, “Ware and ward! They are ur-viles! Demondim corruption!”

  He scarcely heard her. He was focused on the furious need to gain the center of the Dance. For better speed, he ran more upright, flicking his head aside whenever a Wraith flashed near the level of his eyes.

  With a last burst, he broke into the empty core of the wheel.

  He halted. Now he was close enough to see that the wedge was composed of tall, crowded figures, so black-fleshed that no light could gleam or glisten on their skin. As the helpless Wraiths swung into the wedge, the attackers ate them.