White Gold Wielder

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  He appeared to have become leaner, worn away by pain. His cheeks were hollow. His yellow eyes had sunk into his skull; their sockets were as livid as bruises. He was rife with mortification or grief.

  “You did that,” Linden panted. “You’re still trying to kill him.”

  He did not meet her gaze. The arrogance of his people was gone from him. “The Würd of the Elohim is strict and costly.” If he had raised his eyes to Linden’s, she might have thought he was asking for understanding or acceptance. “How should it be otherwise? Are we not the heart of the Earth in all things? Yet those who remain in the bliss and blessing of Elemesnedene have been misled by their comfort Because the clachan is our home, we have considered that all questions may be answered there. Yet it is not in Elemesnedene that the truth lies, but rather in we who people the place. And we have mistaken our Würd. Because we are the heart, we have conceived that whatever we will must perforce transcend all else.

  “Therefore we do not question our withdrawal from the wide Earth. We contemplate all else, yet give no name to what we fear.”

  Then he did look up; and his voice took on the anger of self-justification. “But I have witnessed that fear. Chant and others have fallen to it. Infelice herself knows its touch. And I have participated in the binding to doom of the Appointed. I have felt the curse of Kastenessen upon my head.” He was ashamed of what he had done to Vain—and determined not to regret it “You have taught me to esteem you. You bear the outcome of the Earth well. But my peril is thereby increased.

  “I will not suffer that cost.”

  Folding his arms across his chest, he closed himself off from interrogation.

  In bafflement. Covenant turned to Linden. But she had no explanation to offer. Her percipience had never been a match for the Elohim. She had caught no glimpse of Findail until he emerged from the roadway, still knew nothing about him except that he was Earthpower incarnate, capable of taking any form of life he wished. Altogether flexible. And dangerously unbound by scruple. His people had not hesitated to efface Covenant’s mind for their own inhuman reasons. More than once, he had abandoned her and her companions to death when he could have aided them.

  His refusals seemed innumerable; and the memory of them made her bitter. The pain of the tree he had slaughtered in his last attempt on Vain’s life came back to her. To Covenant, she replied, “He’s never told the truth before. Why should he start now?”

  Covenant frowned darkly. Although he had no cause to trust Findail’s people, he appeared strangely reluctant to judge them, as if instinctively he wanted to do them more justice than they had ever done him.

  But there was nothing any of the company could do about Vain. The river-cleft was deep now—and growing sharply deeper as it advanced into the mountain. The sound of the water diminished steadily.

  The First gestured with her touch. “We must hasten. Our light grows brief.” The fagot she held was dry and brittle; already half of it had burned away. And Pitchwife had only one other brand.

  Swearing under his breath, Covenant started on down the tunnel.

  Linden was shivering. The stone piled imponderably around her felt cold and dire. Vain’s fall repeated itself across her mind. Her breathing scraped in her throat No one deserved to fall like that. In spite of Mount Thunder’s chill atmosphere, sweat trickled uncertainly between her breasts.

  But she followed Covenant and the First. Bracing herself on Pitchwife’s bulky companionship, she moved along the roadway after the wavering torch. She stayed so close to the wall that it brushed her shoulder. Its hardness raised reminders of the hold of Revelstone and the dungeon of the Sandhold.

  Findail walked behind her. His bare feet made no sound.

  As the reflected light from the mouth of the gullet faded, the darkness thickened. Concentrated midnight seemed to flow up out of the crevice. Then a gradual bend in the wall cut off the outer world altogether. She felt that the doors of hope and possibility were being closed on all sides. The First’s torch would not last much longer.

  Yet her senses clung to the granite facts of the road and the tunnel. She could not see the rim of the chasm; but she knew where it was exactly. Pitchwife and Findail were also explicit in spite of the dark. When she focused her attention, she was able to read the surface of the ledge so clearly that she did not need to stumble. If she had possessed the power to repulse attack, she could have wandered the Wightwarrens in relative safety.

  That realization steadied her. The inchoate dread gnawing at the edges of her courage receded.

  The First’s brand started to gutter.

  Beyond it. Linden seemed to see an indefinable softening of the midnight. For a few moments, she stared past the First and Covenant. But her percipience did not extend so far. Then, however, the Swordmain halted, lowered her torch; and the glow ahead became more certain.

  The First addressed Covenant or Linden. “What is the cause of that light?”

  “Warrenbridge,” Covenant replied tightly. “The only way into the Wightwarrens.” His tone was complex with memories. “Be careful. The last time I was here, it was guarded.”

  The leader of the Search nodded. Placing her feet softly, she moved forward again. Covenant went with her.

  Linden gripped her health-sense harder and followed.

  Gradually the light grew clear. It was a stiff red-orange color; and it shone along the ceiling, down the wall of the tunnel. Soon Linden was able to see that the roadway took a sharp turn to the right near the glow. At the same time, the overhanging stone vaulted upward as if the tunnel opened into a vast cavern. But the direct light was blocked by a tremendous boulder which stood like a door ajar across the ledge. The chasm of the river vanished under that boulder.

  Cautiously the First crept to the edge of the stone and peered beyond it.

  For an instant, she went rigid with surprise. Then she breathed a Giantish oath and strode out into the light.

  Advancing behind Covenant, Linden found herself in a high, bright cavity like an entryhall to the catacombs.

  The floor was flat, worn smooth by millennia of use. Yet it was impassable. The cleft passed behind the boulder, then turned to cut directly through the cavern, disappearing finally into the far wall. It was at least fifty feet wide, and there were no other entrances to the cavity on this side. The only egress lay beyond the crevice.

  But in the center of the vault, a massive bridge of native stone spanned the gulf. Warrenbridge. Covenant’s memory had not misled him.

  The light came from the crown of the span. On either side of it stood a tall stone pillar like a sentinel; and they shone as if their essential rock were afire. They made the entire cavern bright—too bright for any interloper to approach Warrenbridge unseen.

  For an instant, the light held Linden’s attention. It reminded her of the hot lake of graveling in which she and the company had once almost lost their lives. But these emanations were redder, angrier. They lit the entrance to the Wightwarrens as if no one could pass between them in hope or peace.

  But the chasm and the bridge and the light were not what had surprised the First. With a wrench, Linden forced herself to look across the vault.

  Vain stood there, at the foot of Warrenbridge. He seemed to be waiting for Covenant or Linden.

  Near him on the stone sprawled two long-limbed forms. They were dead. But they had not been dead long. The blood in which they lay was still warm.

  A clench of pain passed across Findail’s visage and was gone.

  The First’s torch sputtered close to her hand., She tossed its useless butt into the chasm. Gripping her longsword in both fists, she started onto the span.

  “Wait!” Covenant’s call was hoarse and urgent. At once, the First froze. The tip of her blade searched the air for perils she could not see.

  Covenant wheeled toward Linden, his gaze as dark as bloodshed. Trepidation came from him in fragments.

  “The last time— It nearly killed me. Drool used those pillars—th
at rocklight— I thought I was going to lose my mind.”

  Drool Rockworm was the Cavewight who had recovered the Staff of Law after the Ritual of Desecration. He had used it to delve up the Illearth Stone from the roots of Mount Thunder. And when Covenant and the Lords had wrested the Staff from Drool, they had succeeded only in giving the Illearth Stone into Lord Foul’s hold.

  Linden’s percipience scrambled into focus on the pillars. She scrutinized them for implications of danger, studied the air between them, the ancient stone of Warrenbridge. That stone had been made as smooth as mendacity by centuries of time, the pressure of numberless feet. But it posed no threat. Rocklight shone like ire from the pillars, concealing nothing.

  Slowly she shook her head. “There’s nothing there.”

  Covenant started to ask, “Are you—?” then bit down his apprehension. Waving the First ahead, he ascended the span as if Warrenbridge were crowded with vertigo.

  At the apex, he flinched involuntarily: his arms flailed, grasping for balance. But Linden caught hold of him. Pitchwife put his arms around the two of them. By degrees, Covenant found his way back to the still center of his certitude, the place where dizziness and panic whirled around him but did not touch him. In a moment, he was able to descend toward the First and Vain.

  With the tip of her sword, the First prodded the bodies near the Demondim-spawn. Linden had never seen such creatures before. They had hands as wide and heavy as shovels, heads like battering rams, eyes without pupil or iris, glazed by death. The thinness of their trunks and limbs belied their evident strength. Yet they had not been strong enough to contend with Vain. He had broken both of them like dry wood.

  “Cavewights,” Covenant breathed. His voice rattled in his throat. “Foul must be using them for sentries. When Vain showed up, they probably tried to attack him.”

  “Is it possible”—the First’s eyes glared in the rocklight—“that they contrived to send alarm of us ere they fell?”

  “Possible?” growled Covenant. “The way our luck’s going, can you think of any reason to believe they didn’t?”

  “It is certain.” Findail’s unexpected interpolation sent a strange shiver down Linden’s spine. Covenant jerked his gaze to the Appointed. The First swallowed a jibe. But Findail did not hesitate. His grieving features were set. “Even now,” he went on, “forewarning reaches the ears of the Despiser. He savors the fruition of his malign dreams.” He spoke quietly; yet his voice made the air of the high vault ache. “Follow me. I will guide you along ways where his minions will not discover you. In that, at least, his intent will be foiled.”

  Passing through the company, he strode into the dark maze of the Wightwarrens. And as he walked the midnight stepped back from him. Beyond the reach of the rocklight, his outlines shone like the featureless lumination of Elemesnedene.

  “Damn it!” Covenant spat. “Now he wants us to trust him.”

  The First gave a stern shrug. “What choice remains to us?” Her gaze trailed Findail down the tunnel. “One brand we have. Will you rather trust the mercy of this merciless bourne?”

  At once, Linden said, “We don’t need him. I can lead us. I don’t need light.”

  Covenant scowled at her. “That’s terrific. Where’re you going to lead us? You don’t have any idea where Foul is.”

  She started to retort, I can find him. The same way I found Gibbon. All I need is a taste of him. But then she read him more clearly. His anger was not directed at her. He was angry because he knew he had no choice. And he was right. Until she felt the Despiser’s emanations and could fix her health-sense on them, she had no effective guidance to offer.

  Swallowing her vexation, she sighed, “I know. It was a bad idea.” Findail was receding from view: soon he would be out of sight altogether. “Let’s get going.”

  For a moment, Covenant faced her as though he wanted to apologize and did not know how because he was unable to gauge the spirit of her acquiescence. But his purpose still drove him. Turning roughly, he started down the tunnel after the Appointed.

  The First joined him. Pitchwife gave Linden’s shoulder a quick clasp of comradeship, then urged her into motion.

  Vain followed them as if he were in no danger at all.

  The tunnel went straight for some distance; then side passages began to mark its walls. Glowing like an avatar of moonlight, Findail took the first leftward way, moved into a narrow corridor which had been cut so long ago that the rock no longer seemed to remember the violence of formation. The ceiling was low, forcing the Giants to stoop as the corridor angled upward, Findail’s illumination glimmered and sheened on the walls. A vague sense of peril rose behind Linden like a miasma. She guessed that more of the Despiser’s creatures had entered the tunnel which the company had just left. But soon she reached a high, musty space like a disused mustering-hall; and when she and her companions had crossed it to a larger passage, her impression of danger faded.

  More tunnels followed, most of them tending sharply downward. She did not know how the Appointed chose his route; but he was sure of it. Perhaps he gained all the information he needed from the mountain itself, as his people were said to read the events of the outer Earth in the peaks and cols of the Rawedge Rim which enclosed Elemesnedene. Whatever his sources of knowledge, however, Linden sensed that he was leading the company through delvings which were no longer inhabited or active. They all smelled of abandonment, forgotten death—and somehow, obscurely, of ur-viles, as if this section of the catacombs had once been set apart for the products of the Demondim. But they were gone now, perhaps forever. Linden caught no scent or sound of any life here.

  No life except the breathing, dire existence of the mountain, the sentience too slow to be discerned, the intent so immemorially occluded and rigid that it was hidden from mortal perception. Linden felt she was wandering the vitals of an organism which surpassed her on every scale—and yet was too time-spanning and ponderous to defend itself against quick evil. Mount Thunder loathed the banes which inhabited it, the use to which its depths were put. Why else was there so much anger compressed in the gutrock? But the day when the mountain might react for its own cleansing was still centuries or millennia away.

  The First’s bulk blocked most of Findail’s glow. But Linden did not need light to know that Vain was still behind her, or that Covenant was nearly prostrate on his feet, frail with exhaustion. Yet he appeared determined to continue until he dropped. For his sake, she called Findail to a halt. “We’re killing ourselves like this.” Her own knees trembled with strain; weariness throbbed in her temples. “We’ve got to rest.”

  Findail acceded with a shrug. They were in a rude chamber empty of everything except stale air and darkness. She half expected Covenant to protest; but he did not. Numbly he dropped to the floor and leaned his fatigue against one wall.

  Sighing to himself, Pitchwife rummaged through the packs for diamondraught and a meal. Liquor and food he doled out to his companions, sparing little for the future. The future of the Search would not be long, for good or ill.

  Linden ate as much as she could stomach, but only took a sip of the diamondraught so that she would not be put to sleep. Then she turned her attention to Covenant.

  He was shivering slightly. Findail’s light made him look pallid and spectral, ashen-eyed, doomed. His body seemed to draw no sustenance from the food he had consumed. Even diamondraught had little effect on him. He looked like a man who was bleeding internally. On Kevin’s Watch, he had healed the wound in his chest with wild magic. But no power could undo the blow which had pierced him back in the woods behind Haven Farm. Now his physical condition appeared to be merging with that of the body he had left behind, the torn flesh with the knife still protruding from its ribs.

  He had told her this would happen.

  But other signs were missing. He had no bruises to match the ones he had received when Joan had been wrested from him. And he still had his beard. She clung to those things because they seemed to mean that h
e was not yet about to die.

  She nearly cried out when he raised the knife he had brought from Revelstone and asked Pitchwife for water.

  Without question, Pitchwife poured the last of the company’s water into a bowl and handed it to the Unbeliever.

  Awkwardly Covenant wet his beard, then set the knife to his throat. His hands trembled as if he were appalled. Yet by his own choice he conformed himself to the image of his death.

  Linden struggled to keep herself from railing at his self-abnegation, the surrender it implied. He behaved as if he had indeed given himself up to despair. It was unbearable. But the sight of him was too poignant: she could not accuse or blame him. Wrestling down her grief, she said in a voice that still sounded like bereavement, “You know, that beard doesn’t look so bad on you. I’m starting to like it” Pleading with him.

  His eyes were closed as if in fear of the moment when the blade would slice into his skin, mishandled by his numb fingers. Yet with every stroke of the knife his hands grew calmer.

  “I did this the last time I was here. An ur-vile knocked me off a ledge. Away from everyone else. I was alone. So scared I couldn’t even scream. But shaving helped. If you’d seen me, you would’ve thought I was trying to cut my throat in simple terror. But it helps.” Somehow he avoided nicking himself. The blade he used was so sharp that it left his skin clean. “It takes the place of courage.”

  Then he was done. Putting the knife back under his belt, he looked at Linden as if he knew exactly what she had been trying to say to him. “I don’t like it.” His purpose was in his voice, as hard and certain as his ring. “But it’s better to choose your own risks. Instead of just trying to survive the ones you can’t get out of.”

  Linden hugged her heart and made no attempt to answer him. His face was raw—but it was still free of bruises. She could still hope.

  Gradually, he recovered a little strength. He needed far more rest than he allowed himself; but he was noticeably more stable as he climbed erect and announced his readiness.