The Illearth War

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “His big mistake,” Covenant murmured.

  “He admitted Foul to the Council, made him a Lord. He didn’t see through Foul’s disguise. After that it was too late. By the time Foul declared himself and broke into open war, he’d had time for so much subtle treachery that he was unbeatable.

  “In situations like that, I guess most ordinary men kill themselves. But Kevin was no ordinary man—he had too much power for that, even though it seemed useless. He killed the Land instead. All that survived were the people who had time to escape into exile.

  “They say that Kevin understood what he’d done—just before he died. Foul was laughing at him. He died howling.

  “Anyway, that’s why the Oath of Peace is so important now. Everyone takes it—it’s as fundamental as the Lords’ oath of service to the Land. Together they all swear that somehow they’ll resist the destructive emotions—like Kevin’s despair. They—”

  “I know,” Covenant sighed. “I know all about it.” He was remembering Triock, the man who had loved Lena in Mithil Stonedown forty years ago. Triock had wanted to kill Covenant, but Atiaran had prevented him on the strength of the Oath of Peace. “Please don’t say any more. I’m having a hard enough time as it is.”

  “Covenant,” Troy continued as if he were still on the same subject, “I don’t see why you aren’t ecstatic about being here. How can the ‘real’ world be any more important than this?”

  “It’s the only world there is.” Covenant climbed heavily to his feet. “Let’s get out of here. This heat is making me giddy.”

  Moving slowly, they left the amphitheater. The air in Revelstone welcomed them back with its cool, dim pleasance, and Covenant breathed it deeply, trying to steady himself.

  He wanted to get away from Troy, evade the questions he knew Troy would ask him. But the Warmark had a look of determination. After a few moments, he said, “Listen Covenant. I’m trying to understand. Since the last time we talked, I’ve spent half my time trying. Somebody has got to have some idea what to expect from you. But I just don’t see it. Back there, you’re a leper. Isn’t this better?”

  Dully answering as briefly as possible, Covenant said, “It isn’t real. I don’t believe it.” Half to himself, he added, “Lepers who pay too much attention to their own dreams or whatever don’t live very long.”

  “Jesus,” Troy muttered. “You make it sound as if leprosy is all there is.” He thought for a moment, then demanded, “How can you be so sure this isn’t real?”

  “Because life isn’t like this. Lepers don’t get well. People with no eyes don’t suddenly start seeing. Such things don’t happen. Somehow we’re being betrayed. Our own—our own needs for something that we don’t have—are seducing us into this. It’s crazy. Look at you. Come on—think about what happened to you. There you were, trapped between a nine-story fall and a raging fire—blind and helpless and about to die. Is it so strange to think that you cracked up?

  “That is,” he went on mordantly, “assuming you exist at all. I’ve got an idea about you. I must’ve made you up subconsciously so that I would have someone to argue with. Someone to tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Damn it!” Troy cried. Turning swiftly, he snatched up Covenant’s right hand and gripped it at eye level between them. With his head thrust defiantly forward, he said intensely, “Look at me. Feel my grip. I’m here. It’s a fact. It’s real.”

  For a moment, Covenant considered Troy’s hand. Then he said, “I feel you. And I see you. I even hear you. But that only proves my point. I don’t believe it. Now let go of me.”

  “Why?!”

  Troy’s sunglasses loomed at him darkly, but Covenant glared back into them until they turned away. Gradually, the Warmark released the pressure of his grip. Covenant yanked his hand away, and walked on with a quiver in his breathing. After a few strides, he said, “Because I can feel it. And I can’t afford it. Now listen to me. Listen hard. I’m going to try to explain this so you can understand.

  “Just forget that you know there’s no possible way you could have come here. It’s impossible—But just forget that for a while. Listen. I’m a leper. Leprosy is not a directly fatal disease, but it can kill indirectly. I can only—any leper can only stay alive by concentrating all the time every minute to keep himself from getting hurt—and to take care of his hurts as soon as they happen. The one thing— Listen to me. The one thing no leper can afford is to let his mind wander. If he wants to stay alive. As soon as he stops concentrating, and starts thinking about how he’s going to make a better life for himself, or starts dreaming about how his life was before he got sick, or about what he would do if he only got cured, or even if people simply stopped abhorring lepers”—he threw the words at Troy’s head like chunks of stone—“then he is as good as dead.

  “This—Land—is suicide to me. It’s an escape, and I can’t afford even thinking about escapes, much less actually falling into one. Maybe a blind man can stand the risk, but a leper can’t. If I give in here, I won’t last a month where it really counts. Because I’ll have to go back. Am I getting through to you?”

  “Yes,” Troy said. “Yes. I’m not stupid. But think about it for a minute. If it should happen—if it should somehow be true that the Land is real—then you’re denying your only hope. And that’s—”

  “I know.”

  “—that’s not all. There’s something you’re not taking into account. The one thing that doesn’t fit this delusion theory of yours is power—your power. White gold. Wild magic. That damn ring of yours changes everything. You’re not a victim here. This isn’t being done to you. You’re responsible.”

  “No,” Covenant groaned.

  “Wait a minute! You can’t just deny this. You’re responsible for your dreams, Covenant. Just like anybody else.”

  No! Nobody can control dreams. Covenant tried to fill himself with icy confidence, but his heart was chilled by another cold entirely.

  Troy pressed his argument. “There’s been plenty of evidence that white gold is just exactly what the Lords say it is. How were the defenses of the Second Ward broken? How did the FireLions of Mount Thunder get called down to save you? White gold, that’s how. You’ve already got the key to the whole thing.”

  “No.” Covenant struggled to give his refusal some force. “No. It isn’t like that. What white gold does in the Land has nothing to do with me. It isn’t me. I can’t touch it, make it work, influence it. It’s just another thing that’s happened to me. I’ve got no power. For all I know or can do about it, this wild magic could turn on tomorrow or five seconds from now and blast us all. It could crown Foul king of the universe whether I want it to or not. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “Is that a fact?” Troy said sourly. “And since you don’t have any power, no one can hold you to blame.”

  Troy’s tone gave Covenant something on which to focus his anger. “That’s right!” he flared. “Let me tell you something. The only person in life who’s free at all, ever, is a person who’s impotent. Like me. Or what do you think freedom is? Unlimited potential? Unrestricted possibilities? Hellfire! Impotence is freedom. When you’re incapable of anything, no one can expect anything from you. Power has its own limits—even ultimate power. Only the impotent are free.

  “No!” he snapped to stop Troy’s protest. “I’ll tell you something else. What you’re really asking me to do is learn how to use this wild magic so I can go around butchering the poor, miserable creatures in Foul’s army. Well, I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to do any more killing—and certainly not in the name of something that isn’t even real!”

  “Hooray,” muttered Troy in tight sarcasm. “Sweet Jesus. Whatever happened to people who used to believe in things?”

  “They got leprosy and died. Weren’t you listening to that song?”

  Before Troy could reply, they rounded a corner, and entered an intersection where several halls came together. Bannor stood in the junction as if he were waiting for them. He b
locked the hall Covenant had intended to take. “Choose another way,” he said expressionlessly. “Turn aside. Now.”

  Troy did not hesitate; he swung away to his right. While he moved, he asked quickly, “Why? What’s going on?”

  But Covenant did not follow. The crest of his anger, his bone-deep frustration, still held him up. He stopped where he was and glared at the Bloodguard.

  “Turn aside,” Bannor repeated. “The High Lord desires that you should not meet.”

  From the next hallway, Troy called, “Covenant! Come on!”

  For a moment, Covenant maintained his defiance. But Bannor’s impervious gaze deflated him. The Bloodguard looked as immune to affront or doubt as a stone wall. Muttering uselessly under his breath, Covenant started after Troy.

  But he had delayed too long. Before he was hidden in the next hallway, a man came into the intersection from the passage behind Bannor. He was as tall, thick, and solid as a pillar; his deep chest easily supported his broad massive shoulders and brawny arms. He walked with his head down, so that his heavy, red-gray beard rested like a burden on his breast; and his face had a look of ruddy strength gone ominously rancid, curdled by some admixture of gall.

  Woven into the shoulders of his brown Stonedownor tunic was a pattern of white leaves.

  Covenant froze; a spasm of suspense and fear gripped his guts. He recognized the Stonedownor. In the still place at the center of the spasm, he felt sorrow and remorse for this man whose life he had ruined as if he were incapable of regret.

  Striding back into the intersection, Troy said, “I don’t understand. Why shouldn’t we meet this man? He’s one of the rhadhamaerl. Covenant, this is—”

  Covenant cut Troy off. “I know him.”

  Trell’s eyes held Covenant redly, as if after years of pressure they were charged with too much blood. “And I know you, Thomas Covenant.” His voice came out stiffly; it sounded disused, cramped, as if he had kept it fettered for a long time, fearing that it would betray him. “Are you not satisfied? Have you come to do more harm?”

  Through a roar of pounding blood in his ears, Covenant heard himself saying for the second time, “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Trell almost choked on the word. “Is that enough? Does it raise the dead?” For a moment, he shuddered as if he were about to break apart. His breath came in deep, hoarse gasps. Then, convulsively, he threw his strong arms wide like a man breaking bonds. Jumping forward, he caught Covenant around the chest, lifted him off the floor. With a fierce snarl, he hugged Covenant, striving to crush his ribs.

  Covenant wanted to cry out, howl his pain, but he could make no sound. The vise of Trell’s arms drove the air from his lungs, stunned his heart. He felt himself collapsing inwardly, destroying himself with his own pressure.

  Dimly he saw Bannor at Trell’s back. Twice Bannor punched at Trell’s neck. But the Gravelingas only increased his grip, growling savagely.

  Someone, Troy, shouted, “Trell! Trell!”

  Bannor turned and stepped away. For one frantic instant, Covenant feared that the Bloodguard was abandoning him. But Bannor only needed space for his next attack. He leaped high in the air; and as he dropped toward Trell, he chopped the Gravelingas across the base of his neck with one elbow. Trell staggered; his grip loosened. Continuing the same motion, Bannor caught Trell under the chin with his other arm. The sharp backward jerk pulled Trell off balance. As he toppled, he lost his hold on Covenant.

  Covenant landed heavily on his side, retching for air. Through his dizzy gasps, he heard Troy shouting, heard the warning in Troy’s voice. He looked up in time to see Trell charge toward him again. But Bannor was swifter. As Trell lunged, Bannor met him head-on, butted him with such force that he reeled backward, crashed against the wall, fell to his hands and knees.

  The impact stunned him. His massive frame writhed in pain, and his fingers gouged involuntarily at the stone, as if he were digging for breath.

  They clenched into the floor as if it were only stiff clay. In a moment, both his fists were knotted in the rock.

  Then he drew a deep shuddering breath, and snatched his hands out of the floor. He stared at the holes he had made; he was appalled to see that he had damaged stone. When he raised his head, he was panting hugely, so that his broad chest strained at the fabric of his tunic.

  Bannor and Troy stood between him and Covenant. The Warmark held his sword poised. “Remember your Oath!” he commanded sharply. “Remember what you swore. Don’t betray your own life.”

  Tears started running soundlessly from Trell’s eyes as he stared past the Warmark at Covenant. “My Oath?” he rasped. “He brings me to this. What Oath does he take?” With a sudden exertion, he heaved himself to his feet. Bannor stepped slightly ahead of Troy to defend against another attack, but Trell did not look at Covenant again. Breathing strenuously, as if there were not enough air for him in the Keep, he turned and shambled away down one of the corridors.

  Hugging his bruised chest, Covenant moved over to sit with his back against the wall. The pain made him cough thickly. Troy stood nearby, tight-upped and intense. But Bannor appeared completely unruffled; nothing surprised his comprehensive dispassion.

  “Jesus! Covenant,” Troy said at last. “What has he got against you?”

  Covenant waited until he found a clear space between coughs. Then he answered, “I raped his daughter.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “No.” He kept his head down, but he was avoiding Bannor’s eyes rather than Troy’s.

  “No wonder they call you the Unbeliever.” Troy spoke in a low voice to keep his rage under control. “No wonder your wife divorced you. You must have been insufferable.”

  No! Covenant panted. I was never unfaithful to her. Never. But he did not raise his head, made no effort to meet the injustice of Troy’s accusation.

  “Damn you, Covenant.” Troy’s voice was soft, fervid. He sounded too furious to shout. As if he could no longer bear the sight of the Unbeliever, he turned on his heel and strode away. But as he moved he could no longer contain his rage. “Good God!” he yelled. “I don’t know why you don’t drop him in some dungeon and throw away the key! We’ve got enough trouble as it is!” Soon he was out of view down one of the halls, but his voice echoed after him like an anathema.

  Sometime later, Covenant climbed to his feet, hugging the pain in his chest. His voice was weak from the effort of speaking around his hurt. “Bannor.”

  “Ur-Lord?”

  “Tell the High Lord about this. Tell her everything about Trell and me—and Troy.”

  “Yes.”

  “And, Bannor—”

  The Bloodguard waited impassively.

  “I wouldn’t do it again—attack a girl like that. I would take it back if I could.” He said it as if it were a promise that he owed Bannor for saving his life.

  But Bannor gave no sign that he understood or cared what the Unbeliever was saying.

  After a while, Covenant went on, “Bannor, you’re practically the only person around here who hasn’t at least tried to forgive me for anything.”

  “The Bloodguard do not forgive.”

  “I know. I remember. I should count my blessings.” With his arms wrapped around his chest to hold the pieces of himself together, he went back to his rooms.

  NINE: Glimmermere

  Another evening and night passed without any word or sign of Lord Foul’s army—no glimmer of the fire warnings which the Lords had prepared across the Center and North Plains, no returning scouts, no omens. Nevertheless Covenant felt an increase in the tension of Revelstone; as the suspense mounted, the ambient air almost audibly quivered with strain, and Lord’s Keep breathed with a sharper intake, a more cautious release. Even the walls of his room expressed a mood of imminence. So he spent the evening on his balcony, drinking springwine to soothe the ache in his chest, and watching the vague shapes of the twilight as if they were incipient armies, rising out of the very ground to thrust bloodshed upon him.
After a few flasks of the fine, clear beverage, he began to feel that only the tactile sensation of beard under his fingertips stood between him and actions—war and killing—which he could not stomach.

  When he slept that night, he had dreams of blood—wounds glutted with death in a vindictive and profligate expenditure which horrified him because he knew so vividly that only a few drops from an untended scratch were enough; there was no need or use for this hacking and slaughtering of flesh. But his dreams went on, agitating his sleep until at last he threw himself out of bed and went to stand on his balcony in the dawn, groaning over his bruised ribs.

  Wrapped in the Keep’s suspense, he tried to compose himself to continue his private durance—waiting in mixed anxiety and defiance for a peremptory summons from the High Lord. He did not expect her to take his encounter with her grandfather calmly, and he had kept to his rooms since the previous afternoon so that she would know where to find him. Still, when it came, the knock at his door made his heart jump. His fingers and toes tingled—he could feel his pulse in them—and he found himself breathing hard again, in spite of the pain in his chest. He had to swallow down a quick sour taste before he could master his voice enough to answer the knock.

  The door opened, and Bannor entered the room. “The High Lord wishes to speak with you,” he said without inflection. “Will you come?”

  Yes, Covenant muttered grimly to himself. Of course. Do I have a choice? Holding his chest to keep himself from wincing, he strode out of his suite and down the hall.

  He started in the direction of the Close. He expected that Elena would want to make her anger at him public—to make him writhe before the assembled disapproval of Revelstone. He could have avoided Trell; it would have cost him nothing more than one instant of simple trust or considerateness. But Bannor soon steered him into other corridors. They passed through a small, heavy door hidden behind a curtain in one of the meeting halls, and went down a long, twisting stairwell into a deep part of the Keep unfamiliar to Covenant. The stair ended in a series of passages so irregular and dim that they confused him until he knew nothing about where he was except that he was deep in the gut-rock of Revelstone—deeper than the private quarters of the Lords.