“Which I’m doing nothing but make difficult for you. Just having this white gold raises prospects of eradication that never occurred to you before—not to mention the fact that it’s useless. Before this there wasn’t enough power around to make it even worth your while to worry about despair, since you couldn’t damage the Land if you wanted to. But now Foul might get my ring—or I might use it against you—but it’ll never save you.”
Covenant’s hands twitched on the table as if he were fumbling, for something. His fingers knotted together, tensed, then sprang apart to grope separately, aimlessly. “All right. Forget that, too. I’m coming to that. How in the name of all the gods are you going to fight a war—a war, Mhoram, not just fencing around with a bunch of Cavewights and ur-viles!—when everyone you’ve got who’s tall enough to hold a sword has sworn this Oath of Peace? Or are there special dispensations like fine print in your contracts exempting wars from moral strictures or even the simple horror of blood?”
It was in Mhoram’s heart to tell Covenant that he went too far. But the fumbling, graspless jerks of his hands—one maimed, the other carrying his ring like a fetter—told Mhoram that the affront of the Unbeliever’s language was directed inward at himself, not at the Lords or the Land. This perception increased Mhoram’s concern, and again he replied with steady dignity.
“My friend, killing is always to be abhorred. It is a measure of our littleness that we cannot evade it. But I must remind you of a few matters. You have heard Berek’s Code—it is part of our Oath. It commands us:
“Do not hurt where holding is enough;
do not wound where hurting is enough;
do not maim where wounding is enough;
and kill not where maiming is enough;
the greatest warrior is he who does not need to kill.
“And you have heard High Lord Prothall say that the Land would not be served by angry bloodshed. There he touched upon the heart of the Oath. We will do all that might or mastery permits to defend the Land from Despite. But we will do nothing—to the Land, to our foes, to each other—which is commanded to us by our hearts’ black passions or pain or lust for death. Is this not clear to you, ur-Lord? If we must fight and, yes, kill, then our only defense and vindication is to fight so that we do not become like our Enemy. Here Kevin Landwaster failed—he was weakened by that despair which is the Despiser’s strength.
“No, we must fight—if only to preserve ourselves from watching the evil, as Kevin watched and was undone. But if we harm each other, or the Land, or hate our foes—ah, there will be no dawn to the night of that failure.”
“That’s sophistry.”
“Sophistry? I do not know this word.”
“Clever arguments to finance what you’ve already decided to do. Rationalizations. War in the name of Peace. As if when you poke your sword into a foe you aren’t slicing up ordinary flesh and blood that has as much right to go on living as you do.”
“Then do you truly believe that there is no difference between fighting to destroy the Land and fighting to preserve it?”
“Difference? What has that got to do with it? It’s still killing. But never mind. Forget that, too. You’re doing too good a job. If I can’t pick holes in your answers any better than this, I’m going to end up—” His hands began to shake violently, and he snatched them out of sight, shoved them below the table. “I’ll end up freezing to death, that’s what.”
Slumped back in his chair, Covenant fell into an aching silence. Mhoram felt the pressure between them build, and decided that the time had come to ask questions of his own. Breathing to himself the words of power, he said kindly, “You are troubled, my friend. The High Lord is difficult to refuse, is she not?”
“So?” Covenant snapped. But a moment later, he groaned, “Yes. Yes, she is. But that isn’t it. The whole Land is difficult to refuse. I’ve felt that way from the beginning. That isn’t it.” After a tense pause, he went on: “Do you know what she did to me yesterday? She took me upland to see that Unfettered One—the man who claims to understand dreams. I was there for a day or more—But you’re the seer and oracle—I don’t have to tell you about him. You’ve probably gone up there yourself more than anyone else, couldn’t help it, if only because mere ordinary human ears can only stand to hear so much contempt and laughter and no more, regardless of whether you’re asleep or not. So you know what it’s like. You know how he latches onto you with those eyes, and holds you down, and dissects—But you’re the seer and oracle. You probably even know what he said to me.”
“No,” Mhoram replied quietly.
“He said— Hellfire!” He shook his head as if he were dashing water from his eyes. “He said that I dream the truth. He said that I am very fortunate. He said that people with such dreams are the true enemies of Despite—it isn’t Law, the Staff of Law wasn’t made to fight Foul with—no, it’s wild magic and dreams that are the opposite of Despite.” For an instant, the air around him quivered with indignation. “He also said that I don’t believe it. That was a big help. I just wish I knew whether I am a hero or a coward.
“No, don’t answer that. It isn’t up to you.”
Lord Mhoram smiled to reassure Covenant, but the Unbeliever was already continuing, “Anyway, I’ve got a belief—for what it’s worth. It just isn’t exactly the one you people want me to have.”
Probing again, Mhoram said, “That may be. But I do not see it. You do not show us belief, but Unbelief. If this is believing, then it is not belief for, but rather belief against.”
Covenant jumped to his feet as if he had been stung. “I deny that! Just because I don’t affirm the Land or whatever, carry on like some unraveled fanatic and foam at the mouth for a chance to fight like Troy does, doesn’t mean— Assuming that there’s some kind of justice in the labels and titles which you people spoon around—assuming you can put a name at all to this gut-broken whatever that I can’t even articulate much less prove to myself. That is not what Unbelief means.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means—” For a moment, Covenant stopped, choking on the words as if his heart suffered some blockage. Then he reached forward and shaded the gem of the krill with his hands so that it did not shine in his eyes. In a voice suddenly and terribly suffused with the impossibility of any tears which would have eased him, he shouted, “It means I’ve got to withhold—to discount—to keep something for myself! Because I don’t know why!” The next instant, he dropped back into his chair and bowed his head, hiding it in his arms as if he were ashamed.
“ ‘Why’?” Mhoram said softly. “That is not so hard a matter here, thus distant from ‘how.’ Some of our legends hint at one answer. They tell of the beginning of the Earth, in a time soon after the birth of Time, when the Earth’s Creator found that his brother and Enemy, the Despiser, had marred his creation by placing banes of surpassing evil deep within it. In outrage and pain, the Creator cast his Enemy down—out of the universal heavens onto the Earth—and imprisoned him here within the arch of Time. Thus, as the legends tell it, Lord Foul came to the Land.”
As he spoke, he felt that he was not replying to Covenant’s question—that the question had a direction he could not see. But he continued, offering Covenant the only answer he possessed.
“It is clear now that Lord Foul lusts to strike back at his brother, the Creator. And at last, after ages of bootless wars carried on out of malice, out of a desire to harm the creation because he could not touch the Creator, Lord Foul has found a way to achieve his end, to destroy the arch of Time, unbind his exile, and return to his forbidden home, for spite and woe. When the Staff of Law, lost by Kevin at the Desecration, came within his influence, he gained a chance to bridge the gap between worlds—a chance to bring white gold into the Land.
“I tell you simply: it is Lord Foul’s purpose to master the wild magic—‘the anchor of the arch of life that spans and masters Time’—and with it bring Time to an end, so that he may escape his bondage and
carry his lust throughout the universe. To do this, he must defeat you, must wrest the white gold from you. Then all the Land and all the Earth will surely fall.”
Covenant raised his head, and Mhoram tried to anticipate his next question. “But how?—how does the Despiser mean to accomplish this purpose? Ah, my friend, that I do not know. He will choose ways which resemble our own desires so closely that we will not resist. We will not be able to distinguish between his service and our own until we are bereft of all aids but you, whether you choose to help us or no.”
“But why?” Covenant repeated. “Why me?”
Again Mhoram felt that his answer did not lie in the direction of Covenant’s question. But still he offered it, humbly, knowing that it was all he had to give his tormented visitor.
“My friend, it is in my heart that you were chosen by the Creator. That is our hope. Lord Foul taught Drool to do the summoning because he desired white gold. But Drool’s hands were on the Staff, not Lord Foul’s. The Despiser could not control who was summoned. So if you were chosen, you were chosen by the Creator.
“Consider. He is the Creator, the maker of the Earth. How can he stand careless and see his making destroyed? Yet he cannot reach his hand to help us here. That is the law of Time. If he breaks the arch to touch the Land with his power, Time will end, and the Despiser will be free. So he must resist Lord Foul elsewhere. With you, my friend.”
“Damnation,” Covenant mumbled.
“Yet even this you must understand. He cannot touch you here, to teach or help you, for the same reason that he cannot help us. Nor can he touch or teach or help you in your own world. If he does, you will not be free. You will become his tool, and your presence will break the arch of Time, unbinding Despite. So you were chosen. The Creator believes that your uncoerced volition and strength will save us in the end. If he is wrong, he has put the weapon of his own destruction into Lord Foul’s hands.”
After a long silence, Covenant muttered, “A hell of a risk.”
“Ah, but he is the Creator. How could he do otherwise?”
“He could burn the place down, and try again. But I guess you don’t think gods are that humble. Or do you call it arrogance—to burn—? Never mind. I seem to remember that not all the Lords believe in this Creator as you do.”
“That is true. But you came to me. I answer as I can.”
“I know. Don’t mind me. But tell me this. What would you do in my place?”
“No,” said Mhoram. At last he moved his chair to one side, so that he could see Covenant’s face. Gazing into the Unbeliever’s unsteady features, he replied, “That I will not answer. Who can declare? Power is a dreadful thing. I cannot judge you with an answer. I have not yet judged myself.”
The instability of Covenant’s expression momentarily resolved into seeking. But he did not speak, and after a time Mhoram decided to risk another question. “Thomas Covenant, why do you take this so? Why are you so hurt? You say that the Land is a dream—a delusion—that we have no real life. Then do not be concerned. Accept the dream, and laugh. When you awaken, you will be free.”
“No,” Covenant said. “I recognized something in what you said—I’m starting to understand this. Listen. This whole crisis here is a struggle inside me. By hell, I’ve been a leper so long, I’m starting to think that the way people treat lepers is justified. So I’m becoming my own enemy, my own Despiser—working against myself when I try to stay alive by agreeing with the people who make it so hard. That’s why I’m dreaming this. Catharsis. Work out the dilemma subconsciously, so that when I wake up I’ll be able to cope.”
He stood up suddenly, and began to pace Mhoram’s ascetic chamber with a voracious gleam in his eyes. “Sure. That’s it. Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ve been telling myself all the time that this is escapism, suicide. But that’s not it—that’s not it at all. Just forget that I’m losing every one of the habits that keep me alive. This is dream therapy.”
But abruptly a grimace of pain clutched his face. “Hellfire!” he rasped intensely. “That sounds like a story I should have burned—back when I was burning stories—when I still had stories to burn.”
Mhoram heard the anguished change, the turning to dust, in Covenant’s tone, and he stood to reach out toward his visitor. But he did not need to move; Covenant came almost aimlessly in his direction, as if within the four walls of the chamber he had lost his way. He stopped at the table near Mhoram, and gazed miserably at the krill. His voice shook.
“I don’t believe it. That’s just another easy way to die. I already know too many of them.”
He seemed to stumble, though he was standing still. He lurched forward, and caught himself on Mhoram’s shoulder. For a moment, he clung there, pressing his forehead into Mhoram’s robe. Then Mhoram lowered him into a chair.
“Ah, my friend, how can I help you? I do not understand.”
Covenant’s lips trembled, but with a visible effort he regained control of his voice. “Just tired. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. That Unfettered One—drained me. Some food would be very nice.”
The opportunity to do something for Covenant gave Mhoram a feeling of relief. Moving promptly, he brought his guest a flask of springwine. Covenant drank as if he were trying to break an inner drought, and Mhoram went to his back rooms to find some food.
While he was placing bread and cheese and grapes on a tray, he heard a sharp, distant shout; a voice cried his name with an urgency that smote his heart. He set the tray down, hastened to throw open the door of his chambers.
In the sudden wash of light from the courtyard, he saw a warrior standing in one of the coigns high above him. The warrior was a young man—too young for war meat, Mhoram thought grimly—who had lost command of himself. “Lord Mhoram!” he blurted. “Come! Now! The Close!”
“Stop.” The authority in Mhoram’s tone caught the young man like a bit. He winced, stiffened, forced down a chaotic tumult of words. Then he recovered his self-possession. Seeing this, the Lord said more gently, “I hear you. Speak.”
“The High Lord asks that you come to the Close at once. A messenger has come from the Plains of Ra. The Gray Slayer is marching.”
“War?” Mhoram spoke softly to conceal a sharp prevision of blood.
“Yes, Lord Mhoram.”
“Please say to the High Lord that—that I have heard you.”
Bearing himself carefully, Mhoram turned back toward Covenant. The Unbeliever met his gaze with a hot, oddly focused look, as if his skull were splitting between his eyes. Mhoram asked simply, “Will you come?”
Covenant gripped the Lord’s gaze, and said, “Tell me something, Mhoram. How did you get away—when that Raver caught you—near Foul’s Creche?”
Mhoram answered with a conscious serenity, a refusal of dismay, which looked like danger in his gold-flecked eyes. “The Bloodguard with me were slain. But when samadhi Raver touched me, he knew me as I knew him. He was daunted.”
For a moment, Covenant did not move. Then he dropped his glance. Wearily, he set the stoneware flask on the table, pushed it over so that it clicked against the krill. He tugged momentarily at his beard, then pulled himself to his feet. To Mhoram’s gaze, he looked like a thin candle clogged with spilth-guttering, frail, and portionless.
“Yes,” he said. “Elena asked me the same thing. For all the good it’ll do any of us. I’m coming.”
Awkwardly he shambled out onto the burning floor.
PART II — The Warmark
ELEVEN: War Council
Hile Troy was sure of one thing; despite whatever Covenant said, the Land was no dream. He perceived this with an acuteness which made his heart ache.
In the “real” world, he had not been simply blind, he had been eyeless from birth. He lacked even the organs of sight which could have given him a conception of what vision was. Until the mysterious event which had snatched him from between opposing deaths, and had dropped him on the sunlit grass of Trothgard, light and dark had been
equally incomprehensible to him. He had not known that he lived in immitigable midnight. The tools with which he had handled his physical surroundings had been hearing and touch and language. His sense of ambience, his sensitivity to the auras of objects and the resonances of space, was translated by words until it became his sole measure of the concrete world. He had been a good strategist precisely because his perceptions of space and interacting force were pure, undistracted by any knowledge of day or night or color or brilliance or illusion.
Therefore he could not be imagining the Land. His former mind had not contained the raw materials out of which such dreams were made. When he appeared in the Land—when Lord Elena taught him that the rush of sensations which confused him was sight—the experience was altogether new. It did not restore to him something that he had lost. It opened in front of him like an oracle.
He knew that the Land was real.
And he knew that its future hung by the thread of his strategy in this war. If he made a mistake, then more brightness and color than he could ever take into account were doomed.
So when Ruel, the Bloodguard assigned to watch over him, came to him in his quarters and informed him that a Ramen Manethrall had arrived from the Plains of Ra, bringing word of Lord -Foul’s army, Troy felt an instant of panic. It had begun—the test of all his training, planning, hopes. If he had believed Mhoram’s tales of a Creator, he would have dropped to his knees to pray—
But he had never learned to rely on anyone but himself. The Warward and the strategy were his; he was in command. He paused just long enough to strap the traditional ebony sword of the Warmark to his waist and don his headband. Then he followed Ruel toward the Close.
The Illearth War Page 17
