The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

“No, Thomas Covenant,” she said gently. “It was no man. You knew her well. She was Atiaran Trell-mate—she who guided you from Mithil Stonedown to your meeting with Saltheart Foamfollower at the Soulsease River.”

  “Hellfire!” he groaned. At the sound of her name, he saw in his mind Atiaran’s spacious eyes, saw the courage with which she had denied her passion against him in order to serve the Land. And he caught a quick visionary image of her face as she incinerated herself trying to summon him—entranced, bitter, livid with the conflagration of all the inner truces which he had so severely harmed. “Ah, hell,” he breathed. “Why? She needed—she needed to forget.”

  “She could not. Atiaran Trell-mate returned to the Loresraat in her old age for many reasons, but two were uppermost. She desired to bring—no, desire is too small a word. She hungered for you. She could not forget. But whether she wanted you for the Land, or for herself, I do not know. She was a torn woman, and it is in my heart that both hungers warred in her to the last. How otherwise? She said that you permitted the ravage of the Celebration of Spring, though my mother taught me a different tale.”

  No! moaned Covenant, pacing bent as if borne down by the weight of the darkness on his forehead. Oh, Atiaran!

  “Her second reason touches on the grief of long years and extended strength. For her husband was Trell, Gravelingas of the rhadhamaerl. Their marriage was brave and glad in the memory of Mithil Stonedown, for though she had surpassed her strength during her youth in the Loresraat, and had left in weakness, yet was she strong enough to stand with Trell her husband.

  “But her weakness, her self-distrust, remained. The grave test of her life came and passed, and she grew old. And to the pain you gave her was added another; she aged, and Trell Atiaran-mate did not. His lore sustained him beyond his years. So after so much hurt she began to lose her husband as well, though his love was steadfast. She was his wife, yet she became old enough to be his mother.

  “So she returned to the Loresraat, in grief and pain—and in devotion, for though she doubted herself, her love for the Land did not waver. Yet at the last ill came upon her. Fleeing the restraint of the Lorewardens, she wrought death upon herself. In that way, she broke her Oath of Peace, and ended her life in despair.”

  No! he protested. But he remembered Atiaran’s anguish, and the price she had paid to repress it, and the wrong he had done her. He feared that Elena was right.

  In a sterner voice that did not appear to match her words, the High Lord continued, “After her death, Trell came to Revelstone. He is one of the mightiest of all the rhadhamaerl, and he remains here, giving his skill and lore to the defense of the Land. But he knows bitterness, and I fear that his Oath rests uneasily upon him. For all his gentleness, he has been too much made helpless. It is in my heart that he does not forgive. There was no aid he could give Atiaran—or my mother.”

  Through the ache of his memories, Covenant wanted to protest that Trell, with his broad shoulders and his strange power, knew nothing about the true nature of helplessness. But this objection was choked off by the grip of Elena’s voice as she said, my mother. He stood still, bent as if he were about to capsize, and waited for the last unutterable blackness to fall on him.

  “So you must understand why I rode a Ranyhyn as a child. Every year at the last full moon before the middle night of spring, a Ranyhyn came to Mithil Stonedown. My mother understood at once that this was a gift from you. And she shared it with me. It was so easy for her to forget that you had hurt her. Did I not tell you that I also am young? I am Elena daughter of Lena daughter of Atiaran Trell-mate. Lena my mother remains in Mithil Stonedown, for she insists that you will return to her.”

  For one more moment, he stood still, staring at the pattern woven into the shoulders of her shift. Then a flood of revelations crashed through him, and he understood. He stumbled, dropped into a chair as suddenly as if his spine had broken. His stomach churned, and he gagged, trying to heave up his emptiness.

  “I’m sorry.” The words burst between his teeth as if torn out of his chest by a hard fist of contrition. They were as inadequate as stillborns, too dead to express what he felt. But he could do nothing else. “Oh, Lena! I’m sorry.” He wanted to weep, but he was a leper, and had forgotten how.

  “I was impotent.” He forced the jagged confession through his sore throat. “I forgot what it’s like. Then we were alone. And I felt like a man again, but I knew it wasn’t true, it was false, I was dreaming, had to be, it couldn’t happen any other way. It was too much. I couldn’t stand it.”

  “Do not speak to me of impotence,” she returned tightly. “I am the High Lord. I must defeat the Despiser using arrows and swords.” Her tone was harsh; he could hear other words running through it, as if she were saying, Do you think that mere explanation or apology is sufficient reparation? And without the diseased numbness which justified him, he could not argue.

  “No,” he said in a shaking voice. “Nothing suffices.”

  Slowly, heavily, he raised his head and looked at her. Now he could see in her the sixteen-year-old child he had known, her mother. That was her hidden familiarity. She had her mother’s hair, her mother’s figure. Behind her discipline, her face was much like her mother’s. And she wore the same white leaf-pattern woven into the cloth at her shoulders which Lena had worn—the pattern of Trell’s and Atiaran’s family.

  When he met her eyes, he saw that they, too, were like Lena’s. They glowed with something that was neither anger nor condemnation; they seemed to contradict the judgment he had heard a moment earlier.

  “What are you going to do now?” he said weakly. “Atiaran wanted—wanted the Lords to punish me.”

  Abruptly she left her seat, moved around behind him. She put her hands tenderly on his clenched brow and began to rub it, seeking to stroke away the knots and furrows. “Ah, Thomas Covenant,” she sighed, with something like yearning in her voice. “I am the High Lord. I bear the Staff of Law. I fight for the Land, and will not quail though the beauty may die, or I may die, or the world may die. But there is much of Lena my mother in me. Do not frown at me so. I cannot bear it.”

  Her soft, cool, consoling touch seemed to burn his forehead. Mhoram had said that she had sat with him during his ordeal the previous night—sat, and watched over him, and held his hand. Trembling he got to his feet. Now he knew why she had summoned him. There was a world of implications in the air between them; her whole life was on his head, for good or ill. But it was too much; he was too staggered and drained to grasp it all, deal with it. His stiff face was only capable of grimaces. Mutely he left her, and Bannor guided him back to his rooms.

  In his suite, he extinguished the torches, covered the graveling pots. Then he went out onto his balcony.

  The moon was rising over Revelstone. It was still new, and it came in silver over the horizon, tinting the plains with unviolated luminescence. He breathed the autumn air, and leaned on the railing, immune for the moment from vertigo. Even that had been drained out of him.

  He did not think about jumping. He thought about how difficult Elena was to refuse.

  SEVEN: Korik’s Mission

  Sometime before dawn, an insistent pounding at his door woke him. He had been dreaming about the Quest for the Staff of Law—about his friend, Saltheart Foamfollower, whom the company of the Quest had left behind to guard their rear before they had entered the catacombs of Mount Thunder. Covenant had not seen him again, did not know whether the Giant had survived that perilous duty. When he awoke, his heart was laboring as if the clamor at the door were the beating of his dread.

  Numbly, dazed with sleep, he uncovered a graveling pot, then shambled into the sitting room to answer the door.

  He found a man standing in the brightness of the hall. His blue robe belted in black and his long staff identified him as a Lord.

  “Ur-Lord Covenant,” the man began at once. “I must apologize profusely for disturbing your rest. Of all the Lords, I am the one who most regrets such an intrusio
n. I have a deep love for rest. Rest and food, ur-Lord—sleep and sustenance. They are exquisite. Although there are some who would say that I have tasted so much sustenance that I should no longer require rest. No doubt some such argument caused me to be chosen for this arduous and altogether unsavory journey.” Without asking for permission, he bustled past Covenant into the room. He was grinning.

  Covenant blinked his bleary gaze into focus, and took a close look at the man.

  He was short and corpulent, with a round, beatific face, but the serenity of his countenance was punctured by his gleeful eyes, so that he looked like a misbegotten cherub. His expression was constantly roiled; fleet smiles, smirks, frowns, grimaces chased each other across the surface of his essential good humor. Now he was regarding Covenant with a look of appraisal, as if he were trying to gauge the Unbeliever’s responsiveness to jesting.

  “I am Hyrim son of Hoole,” he said fluidly, “a Lord of the Council, as you see, and a lover of all good cheer, as you have perhaps not failed to notice.” His eyes gleamed impishly. “I would tell you of my parentage and history, so that you might know me better—but my time is short. There are consequences to this riding of Ranyhyn, but when I offered myself to their choice I did not know that the honor could be so burdensome. Perhaps you will consent to accompany me?”

  Mutely Covenant’s lips formed the word, Accompany?

  “To the courtyard, at least—if I can persuade you no farther. I will explain while you ready yourself.”

  Covenant felt too groggy to understand what was being asked of him. The Lord wanted him to get dressed and go somewhere. Was that all? After a moment, he found his voice, and asked, “Why?”

  With an effort, Hyrim pulled an expression of seriousness onto his face. He studied Covenant gravely, then said, “Ur-Lord, there are some things which are difficult to say to you. Both Lord Mhoram and High Lord Elena might have spoken. They do not desire that this knowledge should be withheld from you. But brother Mhoram is reluctant to describe his own pain. And the High Lord—it is in my heart that she fears to send you into peril.”

  He grinned ruefully. “But I am not so selfless. You will agree that there is much of me to consider—and every part is tender. Courage is for the lean. I am wiser. Wisdom is no more and no less deep than the skin—and mine is very deep. Of course, it is said that trial and hardship refine the spirit. But I have heard the Giants reply that there is time enough to refine the spirit when the body has no other choice.”

  Covenant had heard that, too; Foamfollower had said it to him. He shook his head to clear away the painful memory. “I don’t understand.”

  “You have cause,” said the Lord. “I have not yet uttered anything of substance. Ah, Hyrim,” he sighed to himself, “brevity is such a simple thing—and yet it surpasses you. Ur-Lord, will you not dress? I must tell you news of the Giants which will not please you.”

  A pang of anxiety stiffened Covenant. He was no longer sleepy. “Tell me.”

  “While you dress.”

  Cursing silently, Covenant hurried into the bedroom and began to put on his clothes.

  Lord Hyrim spoke from the other room. His tone was careful, as if he were making a deliberate effort to be concise. “Ur-Lord, you know of the Giants. Saltheart Foamfollower himself brought you to Revelstone. You were present in the Close when he spoke to the Council of Lords, telling them that the omens which High Lord Damelon had foreseen for the Giants’ hope of Home had come to pass.”

  Covenant knew; he remembered it vividly. Back in the age of the Old Lords, the Giants had been wanderers of the sea who had lost their way. For that reason, they called themselves the Unhomed. They had roamed for decades in search of their lost homeland, but had not found it. At last, they had come to the shores of the Land in the region known as Seareach, and there—welcomed and befriended by Damelon—they had made a place for themselves to live until they rediscovered their ancient Home.

  Since that time, three thousand years ago, their search had been fruitless. But Damelon Giantfriend had prophesied for them; he had foreseen an end to their exile.

  After, and perhaps because, they had lost their Home, the Giants had begun to decline. Though they dearly loved children, few children were born; their seed did not replenish itself. For many centuries, their numbers had been slowly shrinking.

  Damelon had foretold that this would change, that their seed would regain its vitality. That was his omen, his sign that the exile was about to end, for good or ill.

  In his turn, Damelon’s son, Loric, had made a promise to support and affirm that prophecy. He had said that, when Damelon’s omens were fulfilled, the Lords would provide the Giants with potent Gildenlode keels and rudders for the building of new ships for their homeward journey.

  So it was that Foamfollower had reported to the Council that Wavenhair Haleall, the wife of Sparlimb Keelsetter, had given birth to triplets, three sons—an event unprecedented in Seareach. And at the same time, scouting ships had returned to say that they had found a way which might lead the Giants Home. Foamfollower had come to Revelstone to claim High Lord Loric’s promise.

  “For forty years,” Lord Hyrim went on, “the lillianrill of Lord’s Keep have striven to meet that promise. The seven keels and rudders are now nearly complete. But time hurries on our heels, driving us dangerously. When this war begins, we will be unable to transport the Gildenlode to Seareach. And we will need the help of the Giants to fight Lord Foul. Yet it may be that all such helps or hopes will fail. It may be—”

  “Foamfollower,” Covenant interrupted. He fumbled at the laces of his boots. A keen concern made him impatient, urgent. “What about him? Is he—? What happened to him—after the Quest?”

  The Lord’s tone became still more careful. “When the Quest for the Staff of Law made its way homeward, it found that Saltheart Foamfollower was alive and unharmed. He had gained the safety of Andelain, and so had escaped the FireLions. He returned to his people, and since that time he has come twice to Revelstone to help in the shaping of the Gildenlode and to share knowledge. Many Giants came and went, full of hope.

  “But now, ur-Lord—” Hyrim stopped. There was sorrow and grimness in his voice. “Ah, now.”

  Covenant strode back into the sitting room, faced the Lord. “Now?” His own voice was unsteady.

  “Now for three years a silence has lain over Seareach. No Giant has come to Revelstone—no Giant has set foot on the Upper Land.” To answer the sudden flaring of Covenant’s gaze, he continued, “Oh, we have not been idle. For a year we did nothing—Seareach is near to four hundred leagues distant, and a silence of a year is not unusual. But after a year, we became concerned. Then for a year we sent messengers. None have ever returned. During the spring, we sent an entire Eoman. Twenty warriors and their Warhaft did not return.

  “Therefore the Council decided to risk no more warriors. In the summer, Lord Callindrill and Lord Amatin rode eastward with their Bloodguard, seeking passage. They were thrown back by a dark and nameless power in Sarangrave Flat. Sister Amatin would have died when her horse fell, but the Ranyhyn of Callindrill bore them both to safety. Thus a shadow has come between us and our ancient Rockbrothers, and the fate of the Giants is unknown.”

  Covenant groaned inwardly. Foamfollower had been his friend—and yet he had not even said goodbye to the Giant when they had parted. He felt an acute regret. He wanted to see Foamfollower again, wanted to apologize.

  But at the same time he was conscious of Hyrim’s gaze on him. The Lord’s naturally gay eyes held a look of painful somberness. Clearly, he had some reason for awakening Covenant before dawn like this. With a jerk of his shoulders, Covenant pushed down his regret, and said, “I still don’t understand.”

  At first Lord Hyrim did not falter. “Then I will speak plainly. During the night after your summoning, Lord Mhoram was called from your side by a vision. The hand of his power came upon him, and he saw sights which turned his blood to dread in his veins. He saw—” Then abr
uptly he turned away. “Ah, Hyrim,” he sighed, “you are a fat, thistle-brained fool. What business had you to dream of Lords and Lore, of Giants and bold undertakings? When such thoughts first entered your childish head, you should have been severely punished and sent to tend sheep. Your thick, inept self does scant honor to Hoole Gren-mate your father, who trusted that your foolish fancies would not lead you astray.” Over his shoulder, he said softly, “Lord Mhoram saw the death of the Giants marching toward them. He could not make out the face of that death. But he saw that if they are not aided soon—soon, perhaps in a score of days!—they will surely be destroyed.”

  Destroyed? Covenant echoed silently. Destroyed? Then he went a step further. Is that my fault, tool “Why,” he began, then swallowed roughly. “Why are you telling me? What do you expect me to do?”

  “Because of brother Mhoram’s vision, the Council has decided that it must send a mission to Seareach at once—now. Because of the war, we cannot spare much of our strength—but Mhoram says that speed is needed more than strength. Therefore High Lord Elena has chosen two Lords—two Lords who have been accepted by the Ranyhyn—Shetra Verement-mate, whose knowledge of Sarangrave Flat is greater than any other’s, and Hyrim son of Hoole, who has a passing acquaintance with the lore of the Giants. To accompany us, First Mark Morin has chosen fifteen Bloodguard led by Korik, Cerrin, and Sill. The High Lord has given the mission to them as well as to us, so that if we fall they will go on to the Giants’ aid.

  “Korik is among the most senior of the Bloodguard.” The Lord seemed to be digressing, avoiding something that he hesitated to say. “With Tuvor, Morin, Bannor, and Terrel, he commanded the original Haruchai army which marched against the Land—marched, and met High Lord Kevin, with the Ranyhyn and the Giants, and was moved by love and wonder and gratitude to swear the Vow of service which began the Bloodguard. Sill is the Bloodguard who holds me in his especial care, just as Cerrin holds Lord Shetra. I will require them to hold us well,” Hyrim growled with a return to humor. “I do not wish to lose all this flesh which I have so joyfully gained.”