Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The memory of it contrasted starkly with what he saw. It had been a quiet, grassy place girdled with pines like tall sentinels guarding its quietude, and a sprightly brook flowing down its center. But now only bare, wasted earth showed through the thickening snow. The pines had been stripped naked and splintered by more winter than they could survive; and instead of water, a weal of ice ran through the valley like a scar already old.

  Covenant wondered painfully how long this weather would last.

  The implications of that question made him shiver, and he fought his tired frame into a sitting position so that he could lean closer to the pot of graveling. As he did so, he saw three figures sitting around another pot a short distance away. One of them observed his movement and spoke to the others. At once Triock stood and strode toward Covenant. He squatted near the Unbeliever, and studied him gravely before saying, “You have been grievously ill. My lore does not suffice to heal you. But I see that you are no longer dying.”

  “You saved me,” Covenant said as bravely as he could through the pain of his mouth and his inanition.

  “Perhaps. I am unsure. The wild magic has been at work in you.” Covenant stared, and Triock went on: “It appeared that the lomillialor drew a response from the white gold of your ring. With that power, you surpass any test of truth I might give.”

  My ring, Covenant thought dully. But he was not ready to deal with that idea, and he set it aside also. “You saved me,” he repeated. “There are things I need to know.”

  “Let them be. You must eat now. You have not taken food for many days.” He looked around through the snow, then said, “Saltheart Foamfollower brings you aliantha.”

  Covenant heard heavy feet moving across the frozen ground. A moment later Foamfollower knelt with a quiet smile beside him. Both his hands were full of viridian treasure-berries.

  Covenant looked at the aliantha. He felt he had forgotten what to do with them; he had been hungry for so long that hunger had become a part of him. But he could not refuse the offer behind the Giant’s kind smile. Slowly he reached out a numb hand and took one of the treasure-berries.

  When he slipped it past his lip and bit into it, the tangy salt-peach flavor which blossomed in his mouth seemed to refute all his reasons for fasting. And as he swallowed, he could feel nourishment rushing eagerly into him. He spit the seed into his palm; as if he were completing a ritual, he dropped it over his shoulder. Then he began to eat rapidly, wolfishly.

  He did not stop until Foamfollower’s hands were empty. Sighing as if he longed for more, he sowed the last seed behind him.

  The Giant nodded approval and seated himself in a more relaxed position near the graveling. Triock followed his example. When they were both looking at him, Covenant said softly, “I won’t forget this.” He could not think of any other way to express his thanks.

  Triock frowned sharply. He asked Foamfollower, “Does he threaten us now?”

  The Giant’s cavernous eyes searched Covenant’s face. He smiled wanly as he replied, “The Unbeliever has a mournful turn of speech. He does not threaten—he does not threaten us.”

  Covenant felt a surge of grim gratitude for Foamfollower’s understanding. He tried to smile in return, but the tightness of his lip prevented him. He winced at the effort, then pulled his blankets more closely around him. He sensed a depth of cold answers behind the questions he needed to ask.

  But he did not know how to ask them. Triock’s bitter mouth and Foamfollower’s scars intruded between him and his summoners; he feared that he was to blame for the tales they might tell him if he asked. Yet he had to know the answers, had to know where he stood. The first outlines of purpose were taking shape within him. He could not forget how this valley had looked when he had first seen it. And Mhoram had pleaded with him for help.

  Lamely he began, “I didn’t expect to turn up here. I thought Mhoram was going to call me back. But even he doesn’t have the Staff of Law. How—how did you do it?”

  Triock answered in stiff tones, “Mhoram son of Variol, seer and oracle to the Council of Lords, came to Mithil Stonedown before the last war—the battle against Fleshharrower Raver. At that time, he gave to me the lomillialor rod which I have used today—and for the past three days. Because of his gift, I journeyed to the Loresraat, to study the uses of the High Wood. There I learned of High Lord Elena’s fall—I—”

  He paused for a moment to lash down his passion, then went on. “In the years which followed, I waited for the reason of High Lord Mhoram’s gift to be made plain. During that time, I fought with my people against the marauders of the Gray Slayer. Then the Giant Saltheart Foamfollower joined us, and we fought together through the South Plains. While winter increased upon the Land, we attacked and ran and attacked again, doing what damage we could to our vast foe. But at last word came to us that Revelwood had fallen—that great Revelstone itself was besieged. We left our battles, and returned to Mithil Stonedown and Kevin’s Watch. With the lomillialor of High Lord Mhoram, and the strength of Saltheart Foamfollower, and the lore I brought from the Loresraat, we labored for three days, and in the end brought you to the Land. It was not easily done.”

  Triock’s flint voice sparked visions of desperation in Covenant’s mind. To resist them, control them until he was ready for them, he asked, “But how? I thought only the Staff of Law—”

  “Much has been broken by the fall of High Lord Elena,” Triock retorted. “The Land has not yet tasted all the consequences of that evil. But the Staff made possible certain expressions of power—and limited others. Now that limit is gone. Do you not feel the malice of this winter?”

  Covenant nodded with an ache in his eyes. His responsibility for Elena’s end stung him, goaded him to ask another kind of question. “That doesn’t tell me why you did it. After Lena—and Elena—and Atiaran”—he could not bring himself to be more specific—“and everything—you’ve got less reason than anyone in the world to want me back. Even Trell— Maybe Foamfollower here can forget, but you can’t. If you were thinking it any louder, I could taste it.”

  Bitterness clenched Triock’s jaws, but his reply was sharp and ready, as if he had whetted it many times. “Yet Foamfollower is persuasive. The Land is persuasive. The importance which the Lorewardens see in you is persuasive. And Lena daughter of Atiaran still lives in Mithil Stonedown. In her last years, Atiaran Trell-mate said often that it is the duty of the living to make meaningful the sacrifices of the dead. But I wish to find meaning for the sacrifices of those who live. After—after the harm which you wrought upon Lena—she hid herself so that the harm would not be known—so that you would be left free to bear your prophecy to the Lords. That sacrifice requires meaning, Unbeliever.”

  In spite of himself, in spite of his own expectations of hostility and recrimination, Covenant believed Triock. Elena had warned him; she had described the size of Triock’s capabilities. Now he wondered where Triock found his strength. The man had been an unambitious Cattleherd. The girl he loved had been raped, and her bastard daughter had grown up to love the rapist. Yet because of them he had gone to the Loresraat, studied dangerous lore for which he had no desire or affinity. He had become a guerrilla fighter for the Land. And now he had summoned Covenant at the command of the Land’s need and his own harsh sense of mercy. Thickly Covenant muttered, “You’ve kept your Oath.” He was thinking, I owe you for this, too, Foul.

  Abruptly Triock got to his feet. The lines around his eyes dominated his face as he scrutinized Covenant. In a low voice, he said, “What will you do?”

  “Ask me later.” Covenant was ashamed that he could not match Triock’s gaze. “I’m not ready yet.” Instinctively he clasped his right hand over his ring, hiding it from consideration.

  “There is time,” murmured Foamfollower. “You have a great need for rest.”

  Triock said, “Choose soon. We must be on our way at dawn.” Then he moved brusquely away through the mounting snow toward his two companions by the second pot of graveling
.

  “He is a good man,” Foamfollower said softly. “Trust him.”

  Oh, I trust him, Covenant thought. How can I help it?

  Despite the warmth of his blankets, he began to shiver again.

  As he leaned still closer to the glowing fire-stones, he noticed the look of concern on Foamfollower’s face. To forestall any expression of anxiety which would remind him how little he deserved the Giant’s concern, he said hastily, “I still don’t know what’s happened to you. The Giants were— I don’t know what happened to them. And you— You’ve been outrageously hacked upon.” In an effort to probe Foamfollower, he went on, “I’ll tell you something funny. I was afraid of what you might do—after all that business in Treacher’s Gorge. I was afraid you might go back to your people and—and convince them to stop fighting, give it up. What do you think? Have I finally succeeded in telling you a story you can laugh at?”

  But he saw poignantly that he had not. Foamfollower bowed his head, covered his face with one hand. For a moment, the muscles of his shoulders tensed as if with his fingers he were squeezing the bones of his countenance into an attitude which he could not achieve in any other way. “Joy is in the ears that hear,” he said in a voice muffled by his hand. “My ears have been too full of the noise of killing.”

  Then he raised his head, and his expression was calm. Only a smoldering deep within the caves of his eyes revealed that he was hurt. “I am not yet ready to laugh over this matter. Were I able to laugh, I would not feel so—driven to slay Soulcrusher’s creatures.”

  “Foamfollower,” Covenant murmured again, “what’s happened to you?”

  The Giant gestured helplessly with both hands, as if he could not conceive any way to tell his story. “My friend, I am what you see. Here is a tale which lies beyond even my grasp, and I am a Giant—though you will remember that my people considered me uncommonly brief of speech. Stone and Sea! Covenant, I know not what to say. You know how I fought for the Quest for the Staff of Law. When Damelon Giantfriend’s prophecy for my people came to pass, I found that I could not give up this fighting. I had struck blows which would not stop. Therefore I left Seareach, so that I would at least serve the Land with my compulsion.

  “But I did not go to the Lords. In my thoughts, the great rare beauty of Revelstone, Giant-wrought Lord’s Keep, daunted me. I did not wish to stand in those brave halls while Soulcrusher’s creatures raved in the Land. For that reason, I fight, and spend my days with people who fight. From the Northron Climbs to the Last Hills I have struck my blows. When I met Triock son of Thuler and his companions—when I learned that he holds a limb of the High Wood, descendant of the One Tree from which the Staff of Law was made—I joined him. In that way, I garnered my scars, and at last came here.”

  “You’ve been around humans too long,” muttered Covenant. “You haven’t told me anything. What—? How—? I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Then do not begin, my friend. Rest.” Foamfollower reached out and gently touched Covenant’s shoulder. “You also have been too long among—people of another kind. You need days of rest which I fear you will not receive. You must sleep.”

  To his surprise, Covenant found that he was capable of sleep. Warm drowsiness seeped into him from the blankets and the graveling light, spread outward from the aliantha in his blood. Tomorrow he would know better what questions to ask. He lay back on the cold ground and pulled the blankets about his ears.

  But as Foamfollower adjusted the blankets for him, he asked, “How much longer is this winter going to last?”

  “Peace, my friend,” Foamfollower replied. “The Land’s spring should have been born three full moons ago.”

  A shudder of ice ran through Covenant. Bloody hell, Foul! he gritted. Hellfire!

  But in his reclining position he could not resist his long weariness. He fell asleep almost at once, thinking, Hellfire. Hell and blood.

  He lay in red, visionless slumber until sometime after dark he seemed to hear voices that awakened him slightly. Disembodied in his grogginess, they spoke across him as if he were a prostrate corpse.

  “You told him little of the truth,” Triock said.

  And Foamfollower answered, “He has pain enough for one heart. How could I tell him?”

  “He must know. He is responsible.”

  “No. For this he is not responsible.”

  “Still he must know.”

  “Even stone may break when it is too heavily burdened.”

  “Ah, Rockbrother. How will you justify yourself if he turns against the Land?”

  “Peace, my friend. Do not torment me. I have already learned that I cannot be justified.”

  Covenant listened uncomprehendingly. When the voices drifted out of his awareness, he sank into wild dreams of purpose and savage restitution.

  SIX: The Defense of Mithil Stonedown

  Later he was shaken awake by Foamfollower. The Giant nudged his shoulder until he started up out of his blankets into the darkness. In the dim light of half-covered graveling pots, he could see that the snow had stopped, but dawn was still some time away. Night locked the valley full of black air.

  He dropped back into the blankets, muttering groggily, “Go away. Let me sleep.”

  Foamfollower shook him again. “Arise, ur-Lord. You must eat now. We will depart soon.”

  “Dawn,” Covenant said. The stiff soreness of his lip made him mumble as if the numbness of his hands and feet had spread to his tongue. “He said dawn.”

  “Yeurquin reports watch fires approaching Mithil Stonedown from the South Plains. They will not be friendly—few people of the south dare show light at night. And someone climbs toward us from the Stonedown itself. We will not remain here. Arise.” He lifted Covenant into a sitting position, then thrust a flask and bowl into his hands. “Eat.”

  Sleepily Covenant drank from the stone flask, and found that it contained water as icy as melted snow. The chill draft jolted him toward wakefulness. Shivering he turned to the bowl. It contained unleavened bread and treasure-berries. He began to eat quickly to appease the cold water in his stomach.

  Between bites, he asked, “If whatever they are—marauders—are coming, aren’t we safe here?”

  “Perhaps. But the Stonedownors will fight for their homes. They are Triock’s people—we must aid them.”

  “Can’t they just hide in the mountains—until the marauders go away?”

  “They have done so in the past. But Mithil Stonedown has been attacked many times. The Stonedownors are sick at the damage done to their homes in these attacks. This time, they will fight.”

  Covenant emptied the bowl, and forced himself to drink deeply from the flask. The chill of the water made his throat ache.

  “I’m no warrior.”

  “I remember,” Foamfollower said with an ambiguous smile, as if what he remembered did not accord with Covenant’s assertion. “We will keep you from harm.”

  He took the flask and bowl and stowed them in a large leather sack. Then from it he pulled out a heavy sheepskin jacket, which he handed to Covenant. “This will serve you well—though it is said that no apparel or blaze can wholly refute the cold of this winter.” As Covenant donned the jacket, the Giant went on, “I regret that I have no better footwear for you. But the Stonedownors wear only sandals.” He took from his sack a pair of thick sandals and passed them to Covenant.

  When Covenant pushed back his blankets, he saw for the first time the damage he had done to his feet. They were torn and bruised from toe to heel; dry, caked blood covered them in blotches; and the remains of his socks hung from his ankles like the ragged frills of a jester. But he felt no pain; the deadness of his nerves reached deeper than these injuries. “Don’t worry about it,” he rasped as he pulled the socks from his ankles, “It’s only leprosy.”

  He snatched the sandals from Foamfollower, jammed them onto his feet, and tied their thongs behind his heels. “One of these days I’ll figure out why I bother to protect myself at all.�
� But he knew why; his inchoate purpose demanded it.

  “You ought to visit my world,” he growled only half to the Giant. “It’s painless. You won’t feel a thing.”

  Then Triock hailed them. Foamfollower got swiftly to his feet. When Covenant climbed from the blankets, Foamfollower picked them up and pushed them into his sack. With the sack in one hand and the graveling pot in the other, he went with Covenant toward the Stonedownor.

  Triock stood with three companions near the narrow ravine which was the outlet of the valley. They spoke together in low, urgent tones until Foamfollower and Covenant joined them. Then Triock said rapidly, “Rockbrother, our scouts have returned from the Plains. Slen reports that—” Abruptly he stopped himself. His mouth bent into a sardonic smile, and he said, “Pardon me. I forget my courtesy. I must make introductions.”

  He turned to one of his companions, a stocky old man breathing hoarsely in the cold. “Slen Terass-mate, here is ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. Unbeliever, here is Slen, the rarest cook in all the South Plains. Terass his wife stands among the Circle of elders of Mithil Stonedown.”

  Slen gave Covenant a salute which he returned awkwardly, as if the steaming of his breath and the numbness of his hands prevented him from grace. Then Triock turned to his other companions. They were a man and a woman who resembled each other like twins. They had an embattled look, as if they were familiar with bloodshed and killing at night, and their brown eyes blinked at Covenant like the orbs of people who had lost the capacity to be surprised. “Here are Yeurquin and Quirrel,” said Triock. “We have fought together from the first days of this attack upon the Land.