Thomas Covenant 02: The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Either his power was stronger than before, or he moved more swiftly; Troy caught no last glimpse of him.

  The Warmark found that he regretted Amok’s appearance intensely.

  Soon after that, the gathering of the Loresraat broke up. The Lorewardens and students of the Staff hurried away to begin analyzing what had happened, and Drinishok ordered all his students and fellow teachers away to the practice fields. Elena, Mhoram, and Amatin went with Corimini and Staff-Elder Asuraka to their main library. In moments, Troy, Covenant, and Bannor were the only people left in the bowl.

  Troy felt that he should speak with Covenant; there were things that he needed to understand. But he feared that he would not be able to keep his temper, so he also moved away, leaving Bannor to help Covenant struggle off the net. He wanted to talk to the High Lord, ask her why she had made such a foolhardy offer to Amok. But he was not in command of his emotions. He climbed out of the viancome, and strode away along one of the boughs toward Drinishok’s quarters.

  In the Sword-Elder’s larder, he ate a little bread and meat, and drank quantities of springwine in an effort to dissipate the dark sensation of foreboding which Amok had given him. The idea that Elena might wander off somewhere with the youth, hunting for a cryptic and probably useless power when she was desperately needed elsewhere, made him grind his teeth in frustration. His heart groaned with a prescience that told him he was going to lose her. The Land was going to lose her. Searching for balance, he consumed a great deal of springwine. But it did not steady him; his brain reeled as if dangerous winds were buffeting him.

  Early in the afternoon, he went in search of the Lords, but one of the Lorewardens soon told him that they were closeted with Asuraka, studying the lomillialor communication rods. So he descended to the ground, whistled for Mehryl, and rode away from Revelwood with Ruel at his side. He wanted to visit the grave of the student who had summoned him to the Land.

  Covenant had said, It isn’t you they’ve got faith in at all. It’s the student who summoned you. Troy needed to think about that. He could not simply shrug it away. One reason he distrusted Covenant was because the Unbeliever had first been called by Drool Rockworm at Lord Foul’s behest. Did the nature of the summoner have any connection to the worth of the one summoned?

  Furthermore, Covenant had referred to that student strangely, as if he knew something about the young man Troy did not know.

  Troy went to the place of his summons hoping that its physical context, its concrete location in Trothgard, would ease his vague fears and forebodings. He needed to regain his self-confidence. He knew he could not challenge Elena’s decision to follow Amok if he did not believe in himself.

  But when he reached the site of the grave, he found Trell there. The big Gravelingas knelt by the grassy mound as if he were praying. When he heard Troy’s approach, he raised his head suddenly, and his face was so swollen with grief that it struck Troy momentarily dumb. He could think of no reason why Trell Gravelingas should be here grieving.

  Before Troy could collect his thoughts to ask for an explanation, Trell jumped up and hastened away toward his mount, which he had tethered nearby.

  “Trell—!” Troy started to call after him, but Ruel interposed flatly, “Warmark, let him go”

  Troy turned in surprise toward the Bloodguard. Ruel’s visage was as passionless as ever, but something in the way his eyes followed Trell seemed to express an unwonted sympathy. Carefully Troy said, “Why? I don’t understand.”

  “That you must ask the High Lord,” Ruel replied without inflection.

  “I’m asking you!” the Warmark snapped before he could control his irritation.

  “Nevertheless.”

  With an effort, Troy mastered himself. Ruel’s mien said as plainly as words that he was acting on the High Lord’s instructions, and that nothing which did not threaten her life could induce him to disobey her. “All right,” Troy said stiffly. “I’ll do that.” Turning Mehryl, he trotted after Trell’s galloping mount back toward Revelwood.

  But when he reentered the Valley of Two Rivers and approached the Tree, he found Drinishok waiting impatiently for him. The Lords had announced that they would leave Revelwood the next morning, and the Sword-Elder wanted Troy to discuss the defense of the city with all the Lorewardens and students of the Sword. This was a responsibility which Troy could not ignore, so while his private fog turned to dusk and then to night blindness, he addressed the assembled discipline of the Sword. He did not even try to see what he was talking about; he went into the strategy of the Valley from memory.

  But when he was done, he found that he had lost his chance to talk to the Lords. In the darkness, he seemed to lack courage as well as vision. After his lecture, he went to Drinishok’s home, and shared a meal full of indigestible lumps of silence with the Sword-Elder. Then he went to bed early; he could not endure any more of the blurred half-sight of torches. Drinishok respected his mood, and left him alone. In blind isolation, he stared uselessly into the darkness, and tried to recover his balance. He felt certain that he was going to lose Elena.

  He ached to talk to her, to dissuade her, cling to her. But the next morning, when all the riders gathered with their mounts just after dawn on the south side of the great Tree, he found that he could not confront the High Lord with his fears. Sitting regally on Myrha’s back in the gleam of day, she had too much presence, too much personal authority. He could not deny or challenge her. And while she was surrounded by so many people, he could not ask her his questions about Trell. His apprehension was too personal to be aired so publicly. He strove to occupy his mind with other things until he got a chance to talk to someone.

  Deliberately he scanned the company of riders. Standing by their Ranyhyn behind the Lords were twenty Bloodguard—First Mark Morin, Terrel, Bannor, Ruel, Runnik, and fifteen others. Obviously Koral would remain with Lord Amatin at Revelwood. In addition to them, the group included only five others: High Lord Elena, Lord Mhoram, Covenant, Troy, and Trell. When he saw the Gravelingas, Troy again felt a desire to speak to him. The unconcealed wound of Trell’s expression was taut with suspense, as if he awaited some decision from Elena with a degree of agony that surprised Troy. But the Warmark refrained, despite his mounting anxiety. The High Lord had begun to address Lord Amatin and Eldest Corimini.

  “My friends,” she said gravely, “I leave Revelwood in your care. Ward it well! The Tree and the Loresraat are the two great achievements of the new Lords—two symbols of our service. If it may be done, they must be preserved. Remember vigilance, and watch the Center Plains. If war comes upon you, you must not be taken unaware. And remember that if Revelwood cannot be saved, the Lore still must be preserved, and Lord’s Keep warned. The Loresraat and the Wards must find safety in Revelstone at need.

  “Sister Amatin, these are great burdens. But I place them in your hands without fear. They do not surpass you. And the help of Corimini the Eldest, and of Asuraka and Drinishok the Elders, is beyond price. I do not believe that the Warward will fall in this war. But you must be prepared for all chances, even the worst. You will not fail. This trust becomes you.”

  Lord Amatin blinked back a moment of tears, and bowed silently to the High Lord. Then Elena lifted her head to Revelwood, and projected her voice so that she could be heard in the Tree.

  “Friends! Comrades! Proud people of the Land! There is war upon us. Together we confront the test of death. Now is the time of parting, when all the defenders of the Land must go to their separate tasks. Do not desire to change your lot for another’s. All faith and service are equal, alike worthy and perilous, in this time of need. And do not grieve at parting. We go to the greatest glory of our age—we are honored by the chance to give our utmost for the Land. This is the test of death, that at the last we may prove worthy of what we serve.

  “Be of good heart. If the needs of this war go beyond your strength, do not despair. Give all your strength, and hold Peace, and do not despair. Hold courage and faith high! It
is better to fall and die in Peace than to re-Desecrate the Land.

  “My friends, I am honored that I have shared life with you.”

  High in Revelwood, a strident voice cried, “Hail to the High Lord and the Staff of Law!” And all the people in the Tree and on the ground answered, “Hail! Hail to the High Lord!”

  Elena bowed deeply to Revelwood, spreading her arms wide in the traditional gesture of farewell. Then she turned Myrha toward the riders, and spoke to Lord Mhoram.

  “Now Mhoram, my most trusted friend, you must depart. You and Warmark Hile Troy must rejoin the Warward, to guide it into war. I have decided. I will leave you now, and follow Amok to the Seventh Ward of Kevin’s Lore.”

  In spite of himself, Troy groaned, and clutched at Mehryl’s mane as if to keep himself from falling. But the High Lord took no notice of him. Instead she said to Mhoram, “You know that I do not do this to evade the burden of war. But you also know that you are the more experienced and ready in battle. And you know that the outcome of the war may allow us no second opportunity to discover this Ward. Yet the Ward may enable a victory which would otherwise be taken from us. I cannot choose otherwise.”

  Lord Mhoram gazed at her intently for a time. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with suppressed appeals. “Beware, High Lord. Even the Seventh Ward is not enough.”

  Elena met him squarely, but her own gaze appeared unfocused. The other dimension of her sight was so pronounced that she did not seem to see him at all. “Perhaps it was not enough for Kevin Landwaster,” she replied softly, “but it will suffice for me.”

  “No!” Mhoram protested. “The danger is too great. Either this power did not meet Kevin’s need in any way, or its peril was so great that he feared to use it. Do not take this risk.”

  “Have you seen it?” she asked. “Do you speak from vision?”

  With an effort, Mhoram forced himself to say, “I have not seen it. But I feel it in my heart. There will be death because of it. People will be slain.

  “My friend, you are too careful of all risks but your own. If you held the Staff of Law in my place, you would follow Amok to the ends of the Earth. And people will still be slain. Mhoram, ask your heart—do you truly believe that the future of the Land can be won in war? It was not so for Kevin. I must not lose any chance which may teach me another way to resist the Despiser.”

  Mhoram bowed his head, too moved to make any answer. In the silence, they melded their thoughts, and after a moment the strain in his face eased. When he looked up again, he directed his gaze explicitly toward Covenant and Troy. Softly he said, “Then—if you must go—please do not go alone. Take someone with you—someone who may be of service.”

  For one wild instant, Troy thought that the High Lord was going to ask him to go with her. Despite his responsibilities to the Warward, his lips were already forming his answer—Yes—when she said, “That is my desire. Ur-Lord Covenant, will you accompany me? I wish to share this quest with you.”

  Awkwardly as if her request embarrassed him, Covenant said, “Do you really think I’m going to be of service?”

  A gentle smile touched Elena’s lips. “Nevertheless.”

  He stared into the expanse of her eyes for a moment. Then abruptly, he looked away and shrugged. “Yes. I’ll come.”

  Troy hardly heard the things that were said next—the last formal speeches by Elena and Corimini, the Loresraat’s brief song of encouragement, the exchange of farewells. When the High Lord said a final word to him, he could barely bring himself to bow in answer. With his Yes frozen on his lips, he watched the end of the ceremonies, and saw Elena and Covenant ride away together westward, accompanied only by Bannor and First Mark Morin. He felt paralyzed in the act of falling—crying, I’m going to lose you! Lord Mhoram came close to him, and spoke. But he did not move until he realized through his distress that Trell had not followed Covenant and the High Lord.

  Suddenly his restraint broke. He spun urgently toward Trell, turned in time to see the Gravelingas yank his heavy fists out of his hair, snatch up the reins of his horse, and start away at a gallop toward the ford of the Llurallin north of Revelwood.

  Troy went after him. Mehryl flashed under the Tree, and caught up with Trell in the sunlight beyond the city. Troy ordered the Gravelingas to stop, but Trell ignored him. At once, the Warmark told Mehryl to halt Trell’s mount. Mehryl gave one short, commanding whinny, and the horse stopped so sharply that Trell almost lost his seat.

  When the Gravelingas forced his head up to meet Troy, his eyes ran with tears, and he panted as if he were being slowly suffocated. But Troy had no more time to spare for considerateness. “What’re you doing?” he rasped. “Where’re you going?”

  “Revelstone,” croaked Trell. “There is nothing for me here.”

  “So? We’re going south—don’t you know that? You live in the South Plains, don’t you? Don’t you want to help defend your home?” This was not what Troy wanted to ask, but he had not found the words for his real question.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I cannot go back. She is there— I cannot bear it. After this!”

  As Trell panted his answer, Lord Mhoram rode up to them. At once, he started to speak, but Troy cut him off with a savage gesture. “She?” the Warmark demanded. “Who? Your daughter?” When Trell nodded dumbly, Troy said, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” Things he did not know buffeted him; he had to find answers. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you go back home—to your daughter? She’s going to need you.”

  “Melenkurion!” Trell gasped. “I cannot! How could I look into her face—answer questions—after this? Do not torment me!”

  “Warmark!” Mhoram’s voice was hard and dangerous—a warning, almost a threat. “Let him be. Nothing that he can say will help you.”

  “No!” Troy retorted. “I’ve got to know. Trell, listen to me. I have got to know. Believe me, I understand how you feel about him.”

  Trell no longer seemed to hear Troy. “She chose!” he panted, “chose!” He heaved the words between his clenched teeth as if they were about to burst him. “She chose him—him!”

  “Trell, answer me. What were you doing out there yesterday?—at that grave? Trell!”

  The word grave penetrated Trell’s passion. Abruptly he wrapped his arms around his chest, hunched forward. Through his tears, he glared at Troy. “You are a fool!” he hissed. “Blind! She wasted her life.”

  “Wasted?” Troy gaped. “Wasted?” It’s the student who summoned you. Was Covenant right?

  “Perhaps,” Lord Mhoram said grimly. This time his tone compelled Troy’s attention. Troy stared at Mhoram with a gaze thick with dread. “He has abundant reason to visit that grave,” the Lord went on. “Atiaran Trell-mate is buried there. She died in the act which summoned you to the Land. She gave her life in an effort to regain ur-Lord Covenant—but she failed of her purpose. Your presence here is the outcome of her Peace-less grief and her hunger for retribution.”

  Mhoram’s explanation exceeded the limit of Trell’s endurance. Pain convulsed his features. He struck his horse a fierce blow with his heels, and it sprang at once into a frightened gallop toward the Llurallin ford. But Troy did not even see him go. The Warmark turned sharply, and found that he could still discern Elena, Covenant, and the two Bloodguard riding westward out of the Valley. Amok was already with them, walking jauntily at the High Lord’s side.

  Atiaran Trell-mate? Trell-mate? She was his wife? He knew of Atiaran—he had heard too much talk about Covenant not to know that she was the woman who had guided the Unbeliever from Mithil Stonedown to Andelain and the Soulsease River. But he had not known that Trell was her husband. That had been kept from him.

  Then he went a step further. Covenant had raped Trell’s daughter—Atiaran’s daughter—the daughter of the woman who—!

  “Covenant! You bastard!” Troy howled. “What have you done?” But he knew that the travelers could not hear him across the distance
; the noise of the two rivers obliterated distant shouts. A stiff gust of helplessness knocked down his protest, so that his voice cracked and stumbled into silence.

  It was no wonder that Trell could not return home, face his daughter. How could he tell her that the High Lord had chosen friendship rather than retribution for the man who had raped her? Troy did not understand how she could do such a thing to Trell.

  Another moment passed before he grasped the rest of what Mhoram had said. She died in the act— Atiaran was his summoner, not some young ignorant or inspired student. That, too, had been kept from him. He was the result and consequence of her unanswerable pain.

  It isn’t you— Was Covenant right? Were all his plans only so much despair work, set in motion by the extravagance of Atiaran’s death?

  “Warmark.” Lord Mhoram’s tone was stern. “That was not well done. Trell’s hurt is great enough.”

  “I know,” Troy gritted over the aching of his heart. “But why didn’t you tell me? You knew about all this.”

  “The Council decided together to withhold this knowledge from you. We saw only harm in the sharing of it. We wished to spare you pain. And we hoped that you would learn to trust ur-Lord Covenant.”

  “You were dreaming,” Troy groaned. “That bastard thinks this whole thing is some kind of mental game. All that Unbelieving is just a bluff. He thinks he can get away with anything. You can’t trust him.” Grimly he pushed the argument to its conclusion. “And you can’t trust me—or you would have told me all this before. She was trying to summon him. As far as you know, I’m just a surrogate.” He tried to sound lucid, but his voice shook.

  “You misunderstand me,” Mhoram said carefully.

  “No, I don’t misunderstand.” He could feel deadly forces at work around him—choosing, manipulating, determining. He had to clench himself to articulate, “Mhoram, something terrible is going to happen to her.”

  He looked at the Lord, then turned away; he could not bear the compassion in Mhoram’s gaze. Patting Mehryl’s neck, he sent the Ranyhyn trotting around the east side of Revelwood. He avoided the waiting Lorewardens, avoided having to bid them farewell. Gesturing roughly for the Bloodguard and Lord Mhoram to follow ‘him, he rode straight away from Revelwood toward the south ford.