White Gold Wielder

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  But he was not required to breach the door for himself. It opened inward at Gibbon’s word, admitting Covenant, Linden, and Cail to one of the greatest treasures of the old Lords.

  To the Hall of Gifts.

  After all these centuries, it was still intact. The air was tanged with smoke because the torches Gibbon had set for himself created light by destruction. And that kind of light could not do justice to the wonder of the high cavern. But everything Covenant saw was still intact.

  The legacy of the Lords to a future which despised them.

  The makers of Revelstone had wrought little in this spacious cave. They had given it a smooth floor, but had not touched the native stone of its walls, the rough columns which rose tremendously to support the ceiling and the rest of the Keep. Yet that lack of finish suited the purpose for which the Hall had been conceived. The rude surfaces everywhere displayed the best work of the finest artists and craftspeople of the ancient Land.

  Tapestries and paintings behung the walls, defying the decay of centuries—preserved by some skill of the artists or quality of the Hall’s atmosphere. Stands between the columns held large sculptures and carvings. Small pieces rested on wooden shelves cunningly attached to the stone. Many different fabrics were displayed; but all the other works were made of either wood or stone, the two fundamental materials which the Land had once revered. The Hall contained no metal of any description.

  Covenant had not forgotten this place, never forgotten it; but he thought now that he had forgotten its pricelessness. It seemed to bring everything back to him in a rush, every treasured or abhorred memory: Lena and Atiaran, love and rape; Mhoram’s hazardous and indefeasible compassion; the unscrupulous lore of ur-viles; Kevin in his despair; Ranyhyn as proud as wind; Ramen as stubborn as earth. And Giants, Giants on all sides. Giants wonderously depicted with their fealty and grief and grandeur wreathed about them as if the tapestries and stoneworks and carvings were numinous with eternity. Here the people of the Land had shown what they could do when they were given peace.

  And it was here, in this place of destructible beauty and heritage, that Gibbon-Raver had chosen to challenge Covenant for the survival of the Earth.

  Moving unconsciously inward, as if he were blind to the brink of madness gaping at his feet, Covenant went to meet the na-Mhoram.

  Stark in his black robe and scarlet chasuble, with his iron crozier held ready and his red eyes bright, Gibbon stood on a mosaic which swirled through the center of the floor. Covenant had not seen that mosaic before; it must have been set at a later time. It was formed of small stone chips the color of aliantha and agony; and it portrayed Kevin Landwaster at the Ritual of Desecration. Unlike most of the works around it, it conveyed no sense of underlying affirmation. Instead, it expressed Kevin’s lurid and extreme pain as if that were a source of satisfaction.

  Gibbon had taken his position over the Landwaster’s heart.

  At the edge of the mosaic, Honninscrave knelt in the stone.

  Covenant’s entrance into the Hall of Gifts did not make the Giant look up, though his head was the only part of himself he could have moved. By some cunning of Gibbon-Raver’s power, Honninscrave had been fused into the floor. Kneeling, he had sunk into it to the middle of his thighs and forearms as though it were quicksand. Then it had solidified around him, imprisoning him absolutely.

  His eyes stared in despair at the failure of his life. Loss scarred his face with memories of Seadreamer and Starfare’s Gem.

  And the na-Mhoram laughed.

  “See you, Unbeliever?” His voice was crimson and eager. “No Unbelief will redeem you now. I will spare you only if you grovel.”

  In response, Cail sprang past Covenant toward Gibbon as if he thought he could shatter the Raver.

  But Gibbon was ready. His fist tightened on his crozier; fire spread from the open triangle at its tip.

  An involuntary scream tore through Honninscrave.

  Cail leaped to a halt, stood almost trembling a few feet from the na-Mhoram.

  “I know you, Haruchai,” the Raver breathed softly, savagely. “The groveler you serve will not assail me—he values the relics of his dead past and fears to harm them. He values the lost Earth. But you have not the folly of that scruple. Yet you remain a fool. You will not require me to crush the life of this mad Giant who sought to confront me, deeming me as paltry as himself.”

  Cail turned on his heel, strode back to Covenant’s side. His visage held no expression. But sweat beaded on his temples, and the muscles at the corners of his eyes squeezed and released like the labor of his heart.

  Linden tried to curse, but the words came out like wincing. Instinctively she had placed herself half behind Covenant.

  “Hear you?” Gibbon went on, raising his voice so that it contaminated every corner of the great Hall. “You are all fools, and you will not lift finger or flame against me. You will do naught but grovel at my whim or die. You are beaten, Unbeliever. You fear to destroy that which you love. Your love is cowardice, and you are beaten.”

  Covenant’s throat closed as if he were choking on smoke.

  “And you, Linden Avery.” The na-Mhoram’s raw contempt filled the air. “Knowing my touch, you have yet dared me again. And this you name victory to yourself, thinking that such folly expiates your rooted evil. You conceive that we have misesteemed you, that you have put aside Despite. But your belief is anile. You have not yet tasted the depths of your Desecration.

  “Hear you all?” he cried suddenly, exalted by malice. “You are damned beyond description, and I will feast upon your souls!”

  Torn between outrage and visceral horror, Linden made whimpering noises between her teeth. She had come this far because she loved Covenant and loathed evil; but Gibbon appalled her in every nerve and fiber of her being. Her face was as pale as a gravestone; her eyes stared like wounds. Covenant had gone numb to everything else; but he was still aware of her. He knew what was happening to her. She was being ripped apart by her desire for the power to crush Gibbon—to extirpate him as if he were the part of herself she most hated.

  If she did that, if she took hold of Covenant’s fire and wielded it for herself, she would be lost. The inheritance of her parents would overcome her. Destroying Gibbon, she would shape herself in his image, affirm the blackness which had twisted her life.

  That at least Covenant could spare her. And the moment had come. He was caught in the throes of a rupture so fundamental and puissant that it might tear Time asunder. If he did not act now, his control would be gone.

  Deliberately, desperately, he started forward as if he did not realize that he had gone past the brink.

  At once, Gibbon lifted his crozier higher, gripped it more tightly. His eyes spat red. “Bethink you. Unbeliever!” he snapped. “You know not what you do! Consider your hands.”

  Involuntarily Covenant looked down at them, at the krill-cuts across the insides of his fingers.

  His severed flesh gaped, exposing bone. But the cuts were not bleeding. Instead they oozed an essence of leprosy and venom. The very fluid in his veins had become corruption.

  Yet he was prepared for this. His chosen path had brought him here. It was foretold by dreams. And he had already caused the shattering of Revelstone’s gates, already brought immeasurable damage into the Keep. More harm would not alter his doom.

  The scars on his forearm shone black fury. Like poison and flame, he strode onto the mosaic toward Gibbon.

  “Fool!” the na-Mhoram cried. A grimace of fear betrayed his face. “You cannot oppose me! The Banefire surpasses you! And if it does not, I will possess your Linden Avery. Will you slay her also?”

  Covenant heard Gibbon. He understood the threat. But he did not stop.

  Suddenly the Raver sent a blast of fire toward Honninscrave; and Covenant erupted to protect the Master.

  Erupted as if his heart could no longer contain the magma of his power.

  Flame as dark and fathomless as an abyss shouted across the gli
ttering surface of the mosaic, rebounded among the pillars, echoed off the high ceiling. Soulless force ripped Gibbon’s blast from the air, scattered it in tatters, rose on and on with a deafening vehemence, trumpeting for the Raver’s life. His hands lifted in front of him with the palms outward like an appeal for peace; but from his sliced fingers wild magic streamed, venomous and fatal. All his flesh had turned black; his bones were ebon and diseased. The only pure things about him were the stark circle of his ring and the quality of his passion.

  The na-Mhoram retreated a step or two, held up his crozier with vermeil frenzy wailing from its triangle. Fire hot enough to incinerate stone crashed at Covenant. The concentrated ferocity of the Banefire seemed to scorch straight into his vitals. But he went forward through it.

  That Gibbon had slaughtered the people of the Land to feed the Banefire and the Sunbane. That he had taught rites of bloodshed to those who survived, so that they slew each other in order to live. That he had filled Revelstone itself with such pollution. Blast and counter-blast, Honninscrave struggling uselessly again. Cail hauling Linden out of the terrible concussion of powers with screams in her eyes too acute for paralysis and precious artifacts falling like fagots. That he had torn the forehall with Grim-fire and had sent his innocent servants to compel their own butchery from the company. That he had so appalled Linden that she believed the legacy of her parents. That he had brought his violence here, requiring Covenant to spend the Land’s treasured past as tinder.

  Gibbon’s crozier channeled so much might from the Banefire, so much force and rage, that Covenant nearly wept at the ruin it wrought, the price it exacted from him. Under his boots, the colored pieces of the mosaic caught fire, became as brilliant and incandescent as prophecy. He trod an image of the Landwaster’s heart as if that were where his own path led.

  Erect and benighted in the core of his infernal power, he tried to advance on the na-Mhoram.

  And failed.

  Air and light ceased to exist. Every precious thing near his blaze burned away. The nearby columns began to melt: the floor of the Hall rippled on the verge of dissolution. More force than ever before in his life coursed from him and slammed at Gibbon. The essential fabric of the Earth’s existence trembled as if the last wind had begun to blow.

  Yet he failed.

  Lord Foul had planned well, prepared well. Gibbon-Raver was cornered and could not flee, and so he did not falter. And the Banefire was too strong. Centuries of bloodshed had produced their intended fruit; and Gibbon fed it to Covenant, thrust it morsel by bitter morsel between his unwilling teeth. The Banefire was not stronger than he was; it was simply stronger than he dared to be. Strong enough to withstand any assault which did not also crumble the Arch of Time.

  At the taste of that knowledge. Covenant felt his death closing around him, and his despair grew wild. For a long moment with red fury blazing at him like the sun, he wanted to cry out, scream, howl so that the heavens would hear him, No! NO!

  Hear him and fall.

  But before the weaving of the world could tear, he found he knew that answer also. To bear what must be borne. After all, it was endurable—if he chose to go that far, and the choice was not taken from him. Certainly it would be expensive. It would cost him everything. But was that not preferable to a Ritual of Desecration which would make Kevin’s look like an act of petty spite? Was it not?

  After a time, he said softly. Yes. And again, Yes. Accepting it fully for the first time. You are the wild magic. Yes.

  With the last ragged fragments of his will, he pulled himself back from the brink of cataclysm. He could not quench the blackness—and if he did not quench it soon, it would kill him. The venom was eating away his life. But not yet. His face was stretched and mortal with unutterable pain; but he had accepted it. Turning away from Gibbon, he walked off the mosaic.

  As he looked toward Linden and Cail to beg their forgiveness, Nom burst into the Hall of Gifts with the First in fierce pursuit.

  She wrenched to a halt when she saw the wreckage of the Hall, the extent of Covenant’s desperation; then she went swiftly to join Cail and Linden. But the Sandgorgon shot toward the na-Mhoram as if the beast at last had located its perfect prey.

  Flashing past Covenant, pounding across the mosaic, Nom crashed into the red heart of Gibbon’s power.

  And was catapulted away over Honninscrave’s head like a flung child. Even a Sandgorgon was a small thing to pit against the force of the Banefire.

  But Nom understood frustration and fury, effort and destruction. It did not understand fear or defeat. Surely the beast recognized the sheer transcendence of Gibbon’s might. But Nom did not therefore desist or flee. Instead it attacked in another way.

  With both arms, it hit the floor so hard that the entire center of the Hall bucked and spattered like a sheet of water.

  The mosaic cracked across its face, lifted in pieces, fell apart. Shrieking rage, Gibbon staggered to regain his balance, then cocked back his crozier to deliver a blast which would fry Nom’s flesh from its bones.

  But he was maddened by strain and death-lust, and his blow required a moment’s preparation. He did not see the chief result of Nom’s attack.

  That blow sent a fracture from wall to wall—a split which passed directly through the place where Honninscrave knelt in the stone. His bonds were shattered as if that had been Nom’s intent.

  With a roar, Honninscrave charged the na-Mhoram.

  Gibbon was too intensely focused on Nom, too precariously poised. He could not react in time. His human flesh had no defense as Honninscrave struck him a blow which seemed to crush his bones. His crozier clattered across the floor, rang against the base of a column, and lay still, deprived of fire.

  The First cried Honninscrave’s name; but her voice appeared to make no sound in the stunned Hall.

  For a moment, Honninscrave remained hunched and panting over Gibbon’s corpse. Covenant had time for one clear thought: You can’t kill a Raver that way. You can only kill the body.

  Then the Master turned toward his companions; and Covenant nearly broke. He did not need Linden’s percipience to see what had happened, did not need to hear her anguished whisper. He had witnessed such horrors before. And Honninscrave’s plight was plain.

  He stood as if he were still himself. His fists clenched as if he knew what he was doing. But his face was flowing like an hallucination, melting back and forth between savage glee and settled Grim resolve. He was Grimmand Honninscrave, the Master of Starfare’s Gem. And he was samadhi Sheol, the Raver that had led the Clave in Gibbon’s body.

  At war with each other.

  The entire battle was internal. Red flared into his eyes and glazed away. Grins bared his teeth, were fought back. Snarling laughter choked in his throat. When he spoke, his voice cracked and seized under the strain.

  “Thomas Covenant.”

  At once, his voice scaled upward out of control, crying,

  “Madman! Madman!”

  He forced it down again. “Earthfriend. Hear me.” The effort seemed to tear the muscles of his face. Helpless with power, Covenant watched in fever as Honninscrave wrestled for possession of his soul. Through his teeth, the Giant articulated like a death-gasp, “Heed the bidding of your despair. It must be done.”

  At once, several piercing shrieks burst from him—the Raver’s staccato anguish, or Honninscrave’s. “Help him,” Linden panted, “Help him. Dear God.” But there was nothing anybody could do. She alone had the capacity to interfere in such a struggle—and if she made the attempt, Covenant meant to stop her. If samadhi Sheol sprang from Honninscrave to her, it would have access to the wild magic through her.

  Retching for air, Honninscrave gained the mastery.

  “You must slay me.” The words bled from his lips, but they were distinct and certain. His face turned murderous, then regained its familiar lines. “I will contain this Raver while you slay me. In that way, it also will be slain. And I will be at peace.”

  Sheol w
rithed for freedom; but Honninscrave held.

  “I beg of you.”

  Covenant let out a groan of fire; but it went nowhere near the Giant. The First gripped her sword in both fists until her arms trembled; but her tears blinded her, and she could not move. Cail folded his arms across his chest as if he were deaf.

  Linden was savage with suppressed weeping. “Give me a knife. Somebody give me a knife. Oh God damn you all to hell. Honninscrave.” But she had no knife, and her revulsion would not let her go any closer to the Raver.

  Yet Honninscrave was answered.

  By Nom, the Sandgorgon of the Great Desert.

  The beast waited a moment for the others to act, as if it understood that they all had to pass through this crisis and be changed. Then it padded over to Honninscrave, its strange knees tense with strength. He watched it come while the Raver in him gibbered and yowled. But he was the Master now in a way which surpassed samadhi Sheol, and his control did not slip.

  Slowly, almost gently, Nom placed its arms around his waist. For an instant, his eyes gazed toward his companions and yearned as if he wished to say farewell—wished poignantly at the last that he had found some way to go on living. Then, with a wrench as unexpected as an act of kindness, the Sandgorgon crumpled him to the floor.

  As if he were not in tears, Covenant thought dumbly, You can’t kill a Raver that way. But he was not sure anymore. There were mysteries in the world which even Lord Foul could not corrupt.

  Linden gave a gasp as if her own bones had broken. When she raised her head, her eyes were bright and hungry for the power to exact retribution.

  Stiffly the First started toward the body of her friend.

  Before she reached him, Nom turned; and Cail said as if even his native dispassion were not proof against surprise, “The Sandgorgon speaks.”

  Covenant could not clear his sight. All his peripheral vision was gone, blackened by imminent combustion.