The Wounded Land t2cotc-1

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  As Covenant stared about him, the implications of the Riders' anger burned into clarity in his mind. Gibbon had not intended him to know of this place.

  How many other secrets were there in Revelstone?

  One of the Riders hurried to a door and shot back the bolts. Within lay a cell barely wide enough to contain a straw pallet.

  With their rukhs, Akkasri and the other Rider forced Vain toward the door.

  He turned under the architrave. His captors flourished threats of fire; but he made no move against them. He aimed one look at Covenant. His black face wore an expression of appeal.

  Covenant glared back, uncomprehending. Vain?

  A gift beyond price, Foamfollower had said. No purpose but his own.

  Then it was too late. The door clanged shut on Vain. The Rider thrust home the bolts.

  Uselessly Covenant protested, What do you want from me?

  The next instant, a brown arm reached between the window bars of a nearby cell. Fingers clawed the air, desperate for freedom.

  The gesture galvanized Covenant. It was something he understood. He dashed toward that door.

  A Rider shouted at him, forbidding him. He paid no heed.

  As he gamed the door, the arm withdrew. A flat face pressed against the bars. Impassive eyes gazed out at him.

  He almost lost his balance in horror. The prisoner was one of the Haruchai — one of Banner's people, who made their home high in the fastnesses of the Westron Mountains. He could not mistake the stern characteristic mien of the race that had formed the Bloodguard, could not mistake the resemblance to Banner, who had so often saved his life.

  In Andelain, Banner's shade had said, Redeem my people. Their plight is an abomination.

  Suppressing the tonal hit of his native tongue, the Haruchai said, “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder, I salute you. You are remembered among the Haruchai.” The implacable rigour of his personality seemed incapable of supplication. “I am Brinn. Will you set us free?”

  Then hot iron struck the back of Covenant's neck, and he stumbled like a cripple into darkness.

  His unconsciousness was agony, and he could do nothing to assuage it. For a time as painful as frenzy, he lay deaf and blind. But gradually the darkness turned to rain. Torrents, muffled by granite, poured down walls, cascaded off eaves and parapets, rattled against oriels. The sound carried him back to himself. He became aware of the texture of blankets against his skin, aware of the deadness in his fingers and feet, the numbness of loss.

  Remembering leprosy, he remembered everything, with an acuteness that made him press his face to the bed, knot his hands in the blanket under him. Vain. The Haruchai. The attack of the Riders.

  That hidden door, which led to the Aumbrie, and the dungeon.

  It was the same kind of door which the Despiser had formerly used in Foul's Creche. What was such a door doing in Revelstone?

  A shudder ran through him. He rolled over, wincing at the movement. The back of his neck was stiff and sore. But the bones were intact, and the damage to his muscles did not seem permanent.

  When he opened his eyes, he found Gibbon sitting beside his bed. The na-Mhoram's beatific face was tightened to express concern; but his red eyes held only peril.

  A quick glance showed Covenant that he lay in the bedroom of his suite. He struggled to sit up. Sharp pains lanced through his back and shoulders; but the change of position enabled him to cast a glance at his right hand.

  His ring was still there. Whatever else the Clave intended, they apparently did not intend to steal the white gold.

  That steadied him. He looked at the na-Mhoram again, and made an intuitive decision not to raise the issue of the door. He had too many other dangers to consider.

  “Doubtless,” Gibbon said with perfect blandness, “your neck gives you pain. It will pass. Swarte employed excessive force. I have reprimanded her.”

  “How-?” The hurt seemed to cramp his voice. He could barely squeeze out a hoarse whisper. “How long have I been out?”

  “It is now midday of the second day of rain.”

  Damnation, Covenant groaned. At least one whole day. He tried to estimate how many people the Clave had killed in that period of time, but could not. Perhaps they had killed Brinn-He thrust the idea away.

  “Akkasri,” he breathed, filling the name with accusation.

  Gibbon nodded calmly. “Akkasri na-Mhoram-in.”

  “You lied to me.”

  The na-Mhoram's hebetude seemed impervious to offense. “Perhaps. My intent was not false. You came to Revelstone rife with hostility and suspicion. I sought means to allay your mistrust-and at the same time to ward against you if your purpose was evil. Therefore I informed you that Akkasri was of the na-Mhoram-cro. I desired to win your faith. In that I was not false. Guised as a na-Mhoram-cro, Akkasri could answer many questions without presenting to you the apparent threat of power. This I believed because of your treatment of Memla na-Mhoram-in. I regret that the outcome went amiss.”

  This sounded plausible; but Covenant rejected it with a shake of his head. Immediately, a stab of soreness made him grimace. Muttering darkly to himself, he massaged his neck. Then he changed the subject, hoping to unsettle Gibbon. “What the hell are you doing with one of the Haruchai in your goddamn prison?”

  But the na-Mhoram appeared immune to discomfiture. Folding his arms, he said, "I sought to withhold that knowledge from you. Already you believe that you have sufficient cause for mistrust. I desired that you should have no more such reasons until you learned to see the sovereign importance of our work."

  Abruptly, Gibbon went in another direction. “Halfhand, did the Haruchai name you truly? Are you indeed ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder?”

  “What difference does that make?” growled Covenant.

  “That name is mentioned often in the ancient legends. After the First Betrayer, Thomas Covenant was the greatest of all a-Jeroth's servants.”

  “That's ridiculous.” This new distortion of the Land's history dismayed him. But he was determined to evade Gibbon's snare. “How could I possibly be that Thomas Covenant? Where I come from, the name's common. So are white gold rings.”

  Gibbon gazed redly at him; but Covenant did not blink. A lie for a lie, he rasped. Finally, the na-Mhoram admitted, “You have not the look of such age.” Then he went on, "But I was speaking of the Haruchai.

  “Halfhand, we have not one Haruchai in our hold. We have threescore and seven.”

  Three-! Covenant could not keep the horror off his face.

  “There.” Gibbon gestured at him. “I had cause to fear your response.”

  “By God!” Covenant spat fiercely. “You ought to fear the Haruchai! Don't you know what you're dealing with?”

  “I respect them entirely.” The na-Mhoram's dull calm was complete. “Their blood is potent and precious.”

  They were my friends! Covenant could hardly refrain from shouting aloud. What in the name of all bloody hellfire and damnation do you think you're doing?

  “Halfhand, you know that our work requires blood,” Gibbon continued reasonably. "As the Sunbane grows, the Banefire must grow to resist it. We are long beyond the time when the people of the Land could meet all our need.

  “Five generations past, when Offin na-Mhoram led the Clave, he was faced with the defeat of our dream. He had neared the limit of what the Land could supply, and it did not suffice. I will not dwell on his despair. It is enough to say that at that time-by chance or mercy-the Haruchai came to our aid.”

  He shrugged. "It is true that they did not intend the aid we found in them. Five came from the Westron Mountains in the name of their legends, seeking the Council. But Offin did not flinch his opportunity. He took the five captive.

  “With the passage of time, five more came in search of their lost kindred. These also were captured. They were hardy and feral, but the power of the Banefire mastered them. And later more Haruchai came seeking the
lost. First by five, then by ten, then by the score they came, with long lapses between. They are a stubborn people, and generation after generation they did not relent. Generation after generation, they were captured.” Covenant thought he saw a glint of amusement in Gibbon's red eyes. "As their numbers increased, so grew the Banefire. Thus not a one of them prevailed or escaped.

  “Their most recent foray comprised five score-a veritable army in their sight.” Gibbon's blandness sounded like the serenity of a pure heart. “Threescore and seven remain.”

  An abomination. The na-Mhoram's tale made Covenant ache for violence. He could hardly muffle his vehemence as he asked, “Is this supposed to convince me that you're my friend?”

  “I do not seek your conviction here,” replied Gibbon. "I seek only to explain, so that you will comprehend why I sought to withhold this knowledge-and why Swarte struck you when you beheld the Haruchai, You must perceive the extent of our consecration to our task. We count any one life-or any score of lives-or any myriad-as nothing against the life of the Land. The Sunbane is an immense ill, and we must spend immensely to combat it.

  “Also I desire you to understand that your aid — the service of your white ring — promises the redemption of the Land, the saving of many times many lives. Does our shedding distress you? Then aid us, so that the need for blood may be brought to an end. You cannot serve the Land in any other way.”

  Covenant held Gibbon with a glare. Through his teeth, he breathed, “I knew the original Mhoram. The last time I was here, I made him choose between the hope of the Land and the life of one little girl. He chose the girl.” No words could articulate all the bile in his mouth. “You're worse than the Sunbane.”

  He expected the na-Mhoram to retort; but Gibbon only blinked, and said, “Then it is sooth that you are the Unbeliever?”

  “Yes!” Covenant snapped, casting subterfuge and safety aside. “And I'm not going to let you commit genocide on the Haruchai.”

  “Ah.” Gibbon sighed, rising to his feet, “I feared that we would come to this,” He made a placating gesture. “I do not seek your harm. But I see only one means by which we may win your aid. I will ready the Clave for a soothtell. It will reveal the truth you covet. Lies will be exposed, hearts laid bare.”

  He moved to the doorway. “Rest now, Halfhand. Eat-regain your strength. Walk where you wish. I ask only that you eschew the Aumbrie and the hold until that which stands between us has been resolved. I will send for you when the soothtell has been prepared.” Without waiting for an answer, he left the suite.

  Soothtell, Covenant snarled. His inner voice sounded like a croak. By God, yes!

  Ignoring the pain in his neck, he threw off the blankets and went to the next room in search of food.

  There was a fresh tray on the table. The room had been closed against the rain, and the air reeked of smoke. Strangely certain now that the Clave would not try to poison or drug nun, he attacked the food, wolfing it down to appease his empty rage. But he did not touch the flask of metheglin; he did not want anything to dull his alertness, hamper his reflexes. He sensed that Gibbon's soothtell would be a crisis, and he meant to survive it.

  He felt a compelling need to leave his suite and roam Revelstone, measuring his tension and resolve against the huge Keep. But he did not. Exerting a leper's discipline, he sat down in one of the chairs, stretched his legs to another, rested his sore neck on the chairback, and forced himself to be still. Muscle by muscle, he loosened his body, relaxed his forehead, softened his pulse, in an effort to achieve the concentration and poise he required in order to be ready.

  Faces intruded on him: Linden, Sunder, Brinn. Brinn's visage was as absolute as Banner's. Linden's features were strained, not by severity or choice, but by fear. He closed his mind to them, so that his own passion would not blind him. Instead, he thought about the hidden door Vain had discovered.

  He could sense the answer in him, mumbling toward clarity. But it was still blocked by his preconceptions. Yet its very nearness drew beads of trepidation-sweat from his face. He was not prepared for the mendacity it represented.

  Mendacity. He reached out for that idea, tried to take hold of its implications. But the hands of his mind were half-hands, inadequate.

  The knock at his door jerked him erect. A pang stung his neck; droplets of sweat spattered the floor.

  Before he could leave his chair, the door sprang open. Memla burst into the room.

  A tangle of grey-streaked hair framed her pale visage. She clutched her rukh as if she meant to strike him with it. But it held no flame. Her eyes were full of broken honesty.

  “False!” she gasped. “They have been false to me!”

  He lurched to confront her across the table.

  She gaped momentarily for words, unable to compress the enormity of her indignation into mere speech. Then she broke out, “They are here! Santonin-your companions! All here!”

  Covenant gripped the table to keep himself from falling.

  “Two Stonedownors and a stranger. In the hold.” Passion obstructed her breathing. "Santonin I saw, where he did not expect to be seen. The na-Mhoram uttered direct falsehood to me!

  “I challenged Santonin. He revealed the truth-why I and others were sent to meet you. Smirking! Not to escort you, no. To ensure that you did not catch him. He gained Revelstone on the second day of the fertile sun. One day before us!”

  One day? Something in Covenant began to howl. One day?

  “Had I not halted you-had you walked through the night-you might have come upon him before dawn. He passed near me.”

  With an inchoate snarl, Covenant swung his arm, swept the tray from the table. Stoneware broke; metheglin splashed the floor. But the act steadied him. “Memla.” He had been unjust to her. He regained control of his limbs, his purpose; but he could not control his voice. “Take me to Gibbon.”

  She stared at him. His demand took her aback. “You must flee. You are in peril.”

  “Now.” He needed to move, begin, so that the trembling in his chest would not spread to his legs. “Take me to him now.”

  She hesitated, then gave a fierce nod. “Yes. It is right,” Turning on her heel, she strode out of the room.

  He surged after her in anguish and fury. Down toward the roots of Revelstone she guided him, along ways which he remembered. It was a long descent, but it seemed to pass swiftly. When she entered a familiar hall lit from its end by torches, he recognized the place where the Lords of the Council had had their private quarters.

  The wide, round court beyond the hall both was and was not as he remembered it. The floor was burnished granite, as smooth as if it had been polished by ages of use and care. The ceiling rose far above the floor; and the walls were marked at intervals with coigns by which other levels of the Keep communicated with the dwellings spaced around the base of the cavity. These things accorded with his memory. But the light was altogether different. The Lords had not needed torches; the floor itself had shone with Earthpower. According to the old tales, the stone had been set aglow by Kevin Landwaster and the Staff of Law. But that illumination-so expressive of the warmth and fidelity of the Council-was gone now. The torches which replaced it seemed garish and unreliable by comparison.

  But Covenant had neither time nor attention to spare for lost wonder. A score of the Clave stood around the centre of the floor. All held their rukhs ready; and the na-Mhoram's crozier dominated them. They had turned to the sound of Covenant's entrance. Their hoods concealed their faces.

  Within their circle lay a stone slab like a catafalque. Heavy iron fetters chained a man to it.

  One of the Haruchai.

  When Covenant stalked ahead of Memla to approach the circle, he recognized Brinn.

  “Halfhand,” the na-Mhoram said. For the first time, Covenant heard excitement in Gibbon's tone. “The soothtell is prepared. All your questions will be answered now.”

  Nineteen: Soothtell

  THE vibration of augury in the na-Mhoram's voice
stopped Covenant. The high dome of the space was dark, untouched by the light of the torches; the Riders stood on the dead floor as if it were the bottom of an abyss. Behind the concealment of their hoods, they might have been ur-viles; only the pale flesh of their hands revealed that they were human as they poised their rukhs for fire. Santonin was probably among them. Stonemight Woodhelven's fragment of the Illearth Stone was probably hidden somewhere in this circle. Gibbon's tone told Covenant that the Clave had not gathered here to do him any benefit.

  He came to a halt. Echoes of his rage repeated within him like another voice iterating ridicule. Instinctively, he clenched his half-fist around his wedding band. But he did not retreat. In a raw snarl, he demanded, “What the bloody hell have you done with my friends?”

  “The soothtell will answer.” Gibbon was eager, hungry. “Do you choose to risk the truth?”

  Brinn gazed at Covenant. His mien was impassive; but sweat sheened his forehead. Abruptly, he tensed against his fetters, straining with stubborn futility to break the chains.

  Memla had not left the mouth of the hall. “Ware, Halfhand!” she warned in a whisper. “There is malice here.”

  He felt the force of her warning. Brinn also was striving to warn him. For an instant, he hesitated. But the Haruchai had recognized him. Somehow, Brinn's people had preserved among them the tale of the Council and of the old wars against Corruption-the true tale, not a distorted version. And Covenant had met Bannor among his Dead in Andelain.

  Gripping his self-control, he stepped into the circle, went to the catafalque. He rested a hand momentarily on Brinn's arm. Then he faced the na-Mhoram.

  “Let him go.”

  The na-Mhoram did not reply directly. Instead, he turned toward Memla. “Memla na-Mhoram-in,” he said, “you have no part in this soothtell. I desire you to depart.”

  “No.” Her tone brandished outrage. “You have been false to him. He knows not what he chooses.”

  “Nevertheless,” Gibbon began quietly, then lost his hebetude in a strident yell, “you will depart!”