Brisk between its banks, the River ran swiftly toward the Forestal’s demesne, the last bastion of Law.
As they neared the demarcation, Linden saw it more acutely. Here thronging, tormented brush and bracken, mimosas cracked by their own weight, junipers as grotesque as the dancing of demons, all stopped as if they had met a wall: there a greensward as lush as springtime and punctuated with peonies like music swept up the graceful hillslopes to the stately poplars and red-fruited elders that crowned the crests. At the boundary of the Forestal’s reign, mute hurt gave way to aliantha, and the Sunbane was gone from the pristine sky.
Gratitude and gladness and relief made the world new around her as the Soulsease carried the company out of the Land’s brokenness into Andelain.
When she looked behind her, she could no longer see the Sunbane’s green aura. The sun shone out of the cerulean heavens with the yellow warmth of loveliness.
Covenant indicated the south bank. The First and Pitchwife turned in that direction, angling across the current. Covenant swam with all his strength; and Linden followed. The water had already changed from ordinary free-flowing cleanness to crystal purity, as special and renewing as dew. And when she placed her hands on the grass-rich ground to boost herself out of the River, she received a new thrill, a sensation of vibrancy as keen as the clear air. She had been exposed to the Sunbane for so long that she had forgotten what the Earth’s health felt like.
But then she stood on the turf with all her nerves open and realized that what she felt was more than simple health. It was Law quintessenced and personified, a reification of the vitality which made life precious and the Land desirable. It was an avatar of spring, the revel of summer: it was autumn glory and winter peace. The grass under her feet sprang and gleamed, seemed to lift her to a taller stature. The sap in the trees rose like fire, beneficent and alive. Flowers scattered color everywhere. Every breath and scent and sensation was sapid beyond bearing—and yet they urged her to bear them. Each new exquisite perception led her onward instead of daunting her, carried her out of herself like a current of ecstasy.
Laughter and weeping rose in her together and could not be uttered. This was Andelain, the heart of the Land Covenant loved. He lay on his face in the grass, arms outspread as if to hug the ground; and she knew that the Hills had changed everything. Not in him, but in her. There were many things she did not understand; but this she did: the bale of the Sunbane had no power here. She was free of it here. And the Law which brought such health to life was worth the price any heart was willing to pay.
That affirmation came to her like a clean sunrise. It was the positive conviction for which she had been so much in need. Any price. To preserve the last beauty of the Land. Any price at all.
Pitchwife sat on the grass and stared hungrily up the hillsides, his face wide with astonishment. “I would not have credited—” he breathed to himself. “Not have believed—” The First stood behind him, her fingertips resting on his shoulders. Her eyes beamed like the sun-flashes dancing on the gay surface of the Soulsease. Vain and Findail had appeared while Linden’s back had been turned. The Demondim-spawn betrayed no reaction to Andelain; but Findail’s habitual distress had lightened, and he took the crisp air deep into his lungs as if, like Linden, he knew what it meant.
Free of the Sunbane and exalted, she wanted to run—wanted to stretch and bound up the Hills and tumble down them, sport like a child, see everything, taste everything, race her bruised nerves and tired bones as far as they would go into the luxuriant anodyne of this region, the sovereign solace of Andelain’s health. She skipped a few steps away from the River, turned to call Covenant after her.
He had risen to his feet, but was not looking at her. And there was no joy in his face.
His attention was fixed on Sunder.
Sunder! Linden groaned, instantly ashamed that she had forgotten him in her personal transport.
He stood on the bank and hugged Hollian upright against his chest, seeing nothing, comprehending no part of the beauty around him. For a time, he did not move. Then some kind of focus came into his eyes, and he stumbled forward. Too weak now to entirely lift the eh-Brand’s death-heavy form, he half dragged her awkwardly in front of him across the grass.
Ashen with hunger and exhaustion and loss, he bore her to the nearest aliantha. There he laid her down. Under its holly-like leaves, the bush was thick with viridian treasure-berries. The Clave had proclaimed them poison; but after Marid had bitten Covenant, aliantha had brought the Unbeliever back from delirium. And that experience had not been lost on Sunder. He picked some of the fruit.
Linden held her breath, hoping he would eat.
He did not. Squatting beside Hollian, he tried to feed the berries between her rigid lips.
“Eat, love.” His voice was hoarse, veined and cracked like crumbling marble. “You have not eaten. You must eat.”
But the fruit only broke on her teeth.
Slowly he hunched over the pain of his fractured heart and began to cry.
Pain twisted Covenant’s face like a snarl as he moved to the Graveler’s side. But when he said, “Come on,” his voice was gentle. “We’re still too close to the Sunbane. We need to go farther in.”
For a long moment, Sunder shook with silent grief as if at last his mad will had failed. But then he scooped his arms under Hollian and lurched, trembling, to his feet. Tears streamed down his gray cheeks, but he paid them no heed.
Covenant gestured to the Giants and Linden. They joined him promptly. Together they turned to the southeast and started away from the river across the first hillsides.
Sunder followed them, walking like a mute wail of woe.
His need conflicted Linden’s reactions to the rich atmosphere of Andelain. As she and her friends moved among the Hills, sunshine lay like immanence on the slopes: balm filled the shade of the trees. With Covenant and the Giants, she ate aliantha from the bushes along their way; and the savor of the berries seemed to add a rare spice to her blood. The grass gave a blessing back to the pressure of her shoes, lifting her from stride to stride as if the very ground sought to encourage her forward. And beneath the turf, the soil and skeleton of Andelain were resonant with well-being, the good slumber of peace.
And birds, soaring like melody above the treetops, squabbling amicably among the branches. And small woodland animals, cautious of the company’s intrusion, but not afraid. And flowers everywhere, flowers without number—poppy, amaryllis, and larkspur—snapdragon, honeysuckle, and violet—as precise and numinous as poetry. Seeing them, Linden thought that surely her heart would burst with pleasure.
Yet behind her Sunder bore his lost love inward, as if he meant to lay her at the feet of Andelain itself and demand restitution. Carrying death into the arduously defended region, he violated its ambience as starkly as an act of murder.
Though Linden’s companions had no health-sense, they shared her feelings. Covenant’s visage worked unselfconsciously back and forth between leaping eagerness and clenched distress. Pitchwife’s eyes devoured each new vista, every added benison—and flicked repeatedly toward Sunder as if he were flinching. The First held an expression of stem acceptance and approval on her countenance; but her hand closed and unclosed around the handle of her sword. Only Vain and the Appointed cared nothing for Sunder.
Nevertheless the afternoon passed swiftly. Sustained by treasure-berries and gladness, and by rills that sparkled like liquid gem-fire across their path, Linden and her companions moved at Sunder’s pace among the copses and hillcrests. And then evening drew near. Beyond the western skyline, the sun set in grandeur, painting orange and gold across the heavens.
Still the travelers kept on walking. None of them wanted to stop.
When the last emblazonry of sunset had faded, and stars began to wink and smile through the deepening velvet of the sky, and the twittering communal clamor of the birds subsided, Linden heard music.
At first it was music for her alone, melody sung on
a pitch of significance which only her hearing could reach. It sharpened the star-limned profiles of the trees, gave the light of the low, waning moon on the slopes and trunks a quality of etched and lovely evanescence. Both plaintive and lustrous, it wafted over the Hills as if it were singing them to beauty. Rapt with eagerness, Linden held her breath to listen.
Then the music became as bright as phosphorescence; and the company heard it. Covenant drew a soft gasp of recognition between his teeth.
Swelling and aching, the melody advanced. It was the song of the Hills, the incarnate essence of Andelain’s health. Every leaf, every petal, every blade of grass was a note in the harmony: every bough and branch, a strand of singing. Power ran through it—the strength which held back the Sunbane. But at the same time it was mournful, as stem as a dirge; and it caught in Linden’s throat like a sob.
“Oh, Andelain! Forgive! For I am doomed to fail this war.
I cannot bear to see you die—and live,
Foredoomed to bitterness and all the gray Despiser’s lore.
But while I can I heed the call
Of green and tree; and for their worth,
I hold the glaive of Law against the Earth.”
While the words measured out their sorrow and determination, the singer appeared on a rise ahead of the company—became visible like a translation of song.
He was tall and strong, wrapped in a robe as fine and white as the music which streamed from the lines of his form. In his right hand, he gripped a long, gnarled tree-limb as though it were the staff of his might. For he was mighty—oh, he was mighty! The sheer potency of him shouted to Linden’s senses as he approached, stunning her not with fear but with awe. A long moment passed before she was able to see him clearly.
“Caer-Caveral,” whispered Covenant. “Hile Troy.” Linden felt his legs tremble as if he ached to kneel, wanted to stretch himself prostrate in front of the eldritch puissance of the Forestal. “Dear God, I’m glad to see you.” Memories poured from him, pain and rescue and bittersweet meeting.
Then at last Linden discerned through the phosphorescence and the music that the tall man had no eyes. The skin of his face spread straight and smooth from forehead to cheek over the sockets in which orbs should have been.
Yet he did not appear to need sight. His music was the only sense he required. It lit the Giants, entrancing them where they stood, leaving them with a glamour in their faces and a cessation of all hurt in their hearts. It trilled and swirled through Linden, carrying her care away, humbling her to silence. And it met Covenant as squarely as any gaze.
“You have come,” the man sang, drawing glimmers of melody from the greensward, spangled wreaths of accompaniment from the trees. “And the woman of your world with you. That is well.” Then his singing concentrated more personally on Covenant; and Covenant’s eyes burned with grief. Hile Troy had once commanded the armies of the Land against Lord Foul. But he had sold himself to the Forestal of Garroting Deep to purchase a vital victory—and the price had been more than three millennia of service.
“Thomas Covenant, you have become that which I may no longer command. But I ask this of you, that you must grant it.” Melody flowed from him down the hillside, curling about Covenant’s feet and passing on. The music tuned itself to a pitch of authority. “Ur-Lord and Illender, Unbeliever and Earthfriend. You have earned the valor of those names. Stand aside.”
Covenant stared at the Forestal, his whole stance pleading for comprehension.
“You must not intervene. The Land’s need is harsh, and its rigor falls upon other heads as well as yours. No taking of life is gentle, but in this there is a necessity upon me, which you are craved to honor. This Law also must be broken.” The moon was poised above the Hills, as acute as a sickle; but its light was only a pale echo of the music that gleamed like droplets of bright dew up and down the slope. Within the trunks of the trees rose the same song which glittered on their leaves. “Thomas Covenant,” the Forestal repeated, “stand aside.”
Now the rue of the melody could not be mistaken. And behind it shimmered a note of fear.
“Covenant, please,” Caer-Caveral concluded in a completely different voice—the voice of the man he had once been. “Do this for me. No matter what happens. Don’t interfere.”
Covenant’s throat worked. “I don’t—” he started to say. I don’t understand. Then, with a wrench of will, he stepped out of the Forestal’s way.
Stately and grave, Caer-Caveral went down the hillside toward Sunder.
The Graveler stood as if he did not see the tall, white figure, heard no song. Hollian he held upright against his heart, her face pressed to his chest. But his head was up: his eyes watched the slope down which Caer-Caveral had come. A cry that had no voice stretched his visage.
Slowly like an action in a dream, Linden turned to look in the direction of Sunder’s gaze.
As Covenant did the same, a sharp pang sprang from him.
Above the company, moonshine and Forestal-fire condensed to form a human shape. Pale silver, momentarily transparent, then more solid, like an incarnation of evanescence and yearning, a woman walked toward the onlookers. A smile curved her delicate mouth; and her hair swept a suggestion of dark wings and destiny past her shoulders; and she shone like loss and hope.
Hollian eh-Brand. Sunder’s Dead, come to greet him.
The sight of her made him breathe in fierce, shuddering gasps, as if she had set a goad to his heart.
She passed by Covenant, Linden, and the Giants without acknowledging them. Perhaps for her they did not exist. Erect with the dignity of her calling, the importance of her purpose, she moved to the Forestal’s side and stopped, facing Sunder and her own dead body.
“Ah, Sunder, my dear one,” she murmured. “Forgive my death. It was my flesh that failed you, not my love.”
Helpless to reply, Sunder went on gasping as if his life were being ripped out of him.
Hollian started to speak again; but the Forestal raised his staff, silencing her. He did not appear to move, to take any action. Yet music leaped around Sunder like a swirl of moon-sparks, and the Graveler staggered. Somehow Hollian was taken from him. She was enfolded tenderly in the crook of the Forestal’s left arm. Caer-Caveral claimed her stiff death for himself. The song became keener, whetted by loss and trepidation.
Wildly Sunder snatched the krill from its resting place against his burned belly. Its argent passion pierced the music. All reason was gone from him. Wracked for air, he brandished Loric’s blade at the Forestal, mutely demanding that Hollian be given back to him.
The restraint Hile Troy had asked of Covenant made him shudder.
“Now it ends,” fluted Caer-Caveral. The singing which conveyed his words was at once exquisitely beautiful and unbearable. “Do not fear for me. Though it is severe, this must be done. I am weary, eager of release and called to rest. Your love supplies the power, and none other may take the burden from you. Son of Nassic”—the music contained no command now, but only sorrow—“you must strike me.”
Covenant flinched as if he expected Sunder to obey. The Graveler was desperate enough for anything. But Linden watched him with all her senses and saw his inchoate violence founder in dismay. He lowered the krill. His eyes were wide with supplication. Behind the mad obsession which had ruled him since Hollian’s death still lived a man who loathed killing—who had shed too much blood and never forgiven himself for it. His soul seemed to collapse inward. After days of endurance, he was dying.
The Forestal struck the turf with his staff, and the Hills rang. “Strike!”
His demand was so potent that Linden raised her hands involuntarily, though it was not directed at her. Yet some part of Sunder remained unbroken, clear. The corners of his jaw knotted with the old obduracy which had once enabled him to defy Gibbon. Deliberately he unbent his elbow, let the krill dangle from his weak hand. His head slumped forward until his chin rested on his chest. He no longer made any effort to breathe.
&nbs
p; Caer-Caveral sent a glare of phosphorescence at the Graveler. “Very well,” he trilled angrily. “Withhold—and be lost. The Land is ill-served by those who will not pay the price of love.” Turning sharply away, he strode back through the company in the direction from which he had come. He still bore Hollian’s physical form clasped in his left arm.
And the Dead eh-Brand went with him as if she approved. Her eyes were silver and grieving.
It was too much. A strangled cry tore Sunder’s refusal. He could not let Hollian go: his desire for her was too strong. Raising the krill above his head in both fists, he ran at the Forestal’s back.
Too late, Covenant shouted, “No!” and leaped after Sunder.
The Giants could not move. The music held them fascinated and motionless. Linden was not certain that they were truly able to see what was happening.
She could have moved. She felt the same stasis which enclosed the First and Pitchwife; but it was not strong enough to stop her. Her percipience could grasp the melody and make it serve her. With the slow instantaneousness of visions or nightmares, she knew she was able to do it. The music would carry her after Sunder so swiftly that he might never reach the Forestal.
Yet she did not. She had no way to measure the implications of this crisis. But she had seen the pain shining in Hollian’s eyes, the eh-Brand’s recognition of necessity. And she trusted the slim, brave woman. She made no effort to stop Sunder as he hammered the point of the krill between Caer-Caveral’s shoulder blades with the last force of his life.
From the blow burst a deflagration of pearl flame which rent away immobility, sent Linden and the Giants sprawling, hurled Covenant to the grass. At once, all the music became fire and raced toward the Forestal, sweeping around him—and Sunder and Hollian with him—so that they were effaced from sight, consumed in an incandescent whirlwind that spouted into the heavens, reached like the ruin of every song toward the bereft stars. A cacophony of fear clashed and wept around the flame; but the flame did not hear it. In a rush of ascension, the blaze burned its hot, mute agony against the night as if it fed on the pure heart of Andelain, bore that spirit writhing and appalled through the high dark.
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