The Wounded Land

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Relief flooded through her. The Mithil and the sun grew oddly dim. She was prone on the sand without realizing that she had reclined. Her left hand lay in the water. That cool touch seemed to be all that kept her from weeping.

  In a weak voice, Hollian asked, “Is he well?”

  Linden did not answer because she had no words.

  Shortly Sunder returned, his hands laden with treasure-berries. He seemed to understand the exhaustion of his companions. Without speaking, he bent over Linden, slipped a berry between her lips.

  Its deliciousness restored her. She sat up, estimated the amount of aliantha Sunder held, took her share. The berries fed a part of her which had been stretched past its limits by her efforts to keep Covenant alive.

  Hollian watched in weariness and dismay as Sunder consumed his portion of the aliantha. But she could not bring herself to touch the berries he offered her.

  As her strength returned, Linden propped Covenant into a half-sitting position, then pitted berries and fed them to him. Their effect was almost immediate; they steadied his respiration, firmed his muscle tone, cleansed the color of his skin.

  Deliberately she looked at Hollian. The exertion of aiding Covenant had left the eh-Brand in need of aliment. And her searching gaze could find no other answer. With a shudder of resolution, she accepted a berry, put it in her mouth. After a moment, she bit down on it.

  Her own pleasure startled her. Revelation glowed in her eyes, and her fear seemed to fall away like a discarded mantle.

  With a private sigh, Linden lowered Covenant’s head to the sand, and let herself rest.

  The companions remained on the sandbar for a good part of the morning, recuperating. Then when Covenant’s swelling had turned from black to a mottled yellow-purple, and had declined from his shoulder, Linden judged that he was able to travel. They set off down the Mithil once more.

  The voure continued to protect them from insects. Hollian said the sap would retain its potency for several days; and Linden began to believe this when she discovered that the odor still clung to her after more than half a day immersed in the water.

  In the lurid red of sunset, they stopped on a broad slope of rock spreading northward out of the River. After the strain of the past days, Linden hardly noticed the discomfort of sleeping on stone. Yet part of her stayed in touch with Covenant, like a string tuned to resonate sympathetically at a certain pitch. In the middle of the night, she found herself staring at the acute sickle of the moon. Covenant was sitting beside her. He seemed unaware of her. Quietly he moved to the water’s edge for a drink.

  She followed, anxious that he might be suffering from a relapse of delirium. But when he saw her, he recognized her with a nod, and drew her away to a place where they could at least whisper without disturbing their companions. The way he carried his arm showed that it was tender but utile. His expression was obscure in the vague light; but his voice sounded lucid.

  “Who’s the woman?”

  She stood close to him, peered into the shadow of his countenance. “You don’t remember?”

  “I remember bees.” He gave a quick shudder. “That Raver. Nothing else.”

  Her efforts to preserve his life had left her vulnerable to him. She had shared his extremity; and now he seemed to have a claim on her which she would never be able to refuse. Even her heartbeat belonged to him, “You had a relapse,”

  “A relapse—?” He tried to flex his sore arm.

  “You were stung, and went into shock. It was like another snakebite in the same place, only worse. I thought—” She touched his shoulder involuntarily. “I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

  “When was that?”

  “A day and a half ago.”

  “How did—?” he began, then changed his mind. “Then what?”

  “Sunder and I couldn’t do anything for you. We just went on.” She started to speak rapidly. “That night, we came to another Stonedown.” She told him the story as if she were in a hurry to reach the end of it. But when she tried to describe the power of his ring, he stopped her. “That’s impossible,” he whispered.

  “You don’t remember at all?”

  “No. But I tell you it’s impossible. I’ve always—always had to have some kind of trigger. The proximity of some other power. Like the orcrest. It never happens by itself. Never.”

  “Maybe it was the Rider.”

  “Yes.” He grasped the suggestion gratefully. “That must be it. That scepter—his rukh.” He repeated the name she had told him as if he needed reassurance.

  She nodded, then resumed her narration.

  When she was done, he spoke his thoughts hesitantly. “You say I was delirious. I must have been— I don’t remember any of it. Then this Rider tried to attack. All of a sudden, I had power.” His tone conveyed the importance of the question. “What set me off? I shouldn’t have been able to defend myself, if I was that sick. Did you get hurt? Did Sunder—?”

  “No.” Suddenly the darkness between them was full of significance. She had risked herself extravagantly to keep him alive—and for what? In his power and delirium he had believed nothing about her except that she had abandoned him. And even now he did not know what he had cost her. No. She could hardly muffle her bitterness as she replied, “We’re all right. It wasn’t that.”

  Softly he asked, “Then what was it?”

  “I made you think Joan was in danger.” He flinched; but she went on, struck at him with words. “It was the only thing I could find. You weren’t going to save yourself—weren’t going to save me. You kept accusing me of deserting you. By God,” she grated, “I’ve stood by you since the first time I saw Joan. No matter how crazy you are, I’ve stood by you. You’d be dead now if it weren’t for me. But you kept accusing me, and I couldn’t reach you. The only name that meant anything to you was Joan.”

  She hurt him. His right hand made a gesture toward her, winced away. In the darkness, he seemed to have no eyes; his sockets gaped at her as if he had been blinded. She expected him to protest that he had often tried to help her, often striven to give her what support he could. But he stood there as he had stood when she had first confronted him on Haven Farm, upright under the weight of impossible burdens. When he spoke, his voice was edged with rage and exquisite grief.

  “She was my wife. She divorced me because I had leprosy. Of all the things that happened to me, that was the worst. God knows I’ve committed crimes. I’ve raped—killed—betrayed—But those were things I did, and I did everything I could to make restitution. She treated me as if I were a crime. Just being who I was, just suffering from a physical affliction I couldn’t have prevented or cured anymore than I could have prevented or cured my own mortality, I terrified her. That was the worst. Because I believed it. I felt that way about leprosy myself.

  “It gave her a claim on me, I spent eleven years living with it—I couldn’t bear being the cause. I sold my soul to pay that debt, and it doesn’t make any difference.” The muscles of his face contorted at the memory. “I’m a leper. I’m never going to stop being a leper. I’m never going to be able to quit her claim on me. It goes deeper than any choice.” His words were the color of blood.

  “But, Linden,” he went on; and his direct appeal stung her heart. “She’s my ex-wife.” In spite of his efforts to control it, his voice carried fatality like a lament. “If the past is any indication, I’m never going to see her again.”

  She clung to him with her eyes. Uncertainties thronged in her. Why would he not see Joan again? How had he sold himself? How much had he withheld? But in her vulnerability one question mattered more than all the others. As steadily, noncommittally, as she could, she asked, “Do you want to see her again?”

  To her tense ears, the simplicity of his reply bore the weight of a declaration. “No. I don’t particularly like being a leper.”

  She turned away so that he would not see the tears in her eyes. She did not want to be so exposed to him. She was in danger of losing herse
lf. And yet her relief was as poignant as love. Over her shoulder, she said flatly, “Get some rest. You need it.” Then she went back to where Sunder and Hollian lay, stretched out on the rock, and spent a long time shivering as if she were caught in a winter of unshielded loneliness.

  The sun had already risen, red and glowering, when she awoke. A pile of aliantha near Sunder’s knapsack showed that the Stonedownors had foraged successfully for food. Covenant and the eh-Brand stood together, making each other’s acquaintance. Sunder sat nearby as if he were grinding his teeth.

  Linden climbed to her feet. Her body felt abused by the hardness of her bed, but she ignored it. Averting her eyes from Covenant as if in shame, she went to the river to wash her face.

  When she returned, Sunder divided the treasure-berries. The travelers ate in silence: aliantha was a food which imposed stillness. Yet Linden could not deafen herself to the ambience of her companions. Covenant was as rigid as he had ever been on Haven Farm. Hollian’s delicate features wore perplexity as if it were a kind of fear. And the darkness of the Graveler’s mood had not lifted—resentment directed at the eh-Brand, or at himself.

  They made Linden feel lost. She was responsible for their various discomforts—and inadequate to do anything about it. In sustaining Covenant, she had opened doors which she now could not close, though she swore she would close them. Muttering sourly to herself, she finished her aliantha, scattered the seeds beyond the rock, then went severely through the motions of preparing to enter the River.

  But Hollian could not bear her own trouble in silence. After a moment, she addressed the Unbeliever. “You say that I am to name you Covenant—though it is a name of ill omen, and sits unquietly in my mouth. Very well. Covenant. Have you considered where you go? The Graveler and Linden Avery say that you are destined for Revelstone. My heart shrinks from the thought—but if such is your goal, I will not gainsay it. Yet Revelstone lies there.” She pointed northwestward. “Eleven score leagues distant. The Mithil no longer shares your way.”

  “That is known to us, eh-Brand,” Sunder muttered.

  She ignored him. “It may be that we can journey afoot, with the aid of voure.” She hesitated, recognizing the difficulty of what she proposed. “And great good fortune.” Her eyes did not leave Covenant’s face.

  “Maybe.” His tone betrayed that he had already made his decision. “But I don’t want to take the chance of getting stung again. We’ll stay on the River for another day or two, anyway.”

  “Covenant.” Hollian’s gaze was poignant. “Do you know what lies that way?”

  “Yes.” He met her squarely. “Andelain.”

  Andelain? The concealed intensity with which he said that name brought Linden to alertness.

  “Do you—” Hollian wrestled against her apprehension. “Do you choose to approach Andelain?”

  “Yes.” Covenant’s resolution was complete. But he studied the eh-Brand closely, as if her concern disturbed him. “I want to see it. Before I go to Revelstone.”

  His assertion appalled her. She recoiled. Gasping she strove to shout, but could not find enough air in all the wide morning. “You are mad. Or a servant of a-Jeroth, as the Rede proclaims.” She turned toward Linden, then Sunder, beseeching them to hear her. “You must not permit it.” She snatched a raw breath, cried out, “You must not!”

  Covenant sprang at her, dug his fingers into her shoulders, shook her. “What’s wrong with Andelain?”

  Hollian’s mouth worked; but she could find no words.

  “Sunder!” Covenant barked.

  Stiffly the Graveler replied, “I am fourscore leagues from my home. I know nothing of this Andelain.”

  Hollian fought to master herself. “Covenant,” she said in a livid tone, “you may eat aliantha. You may defy the Clave. You may trample upon the Rede, and cast your challenge to the Sunbane itself. But you must not enter Andelain.”

  Covenant lowered his voice, demanded dangerously, “Why not?”

  “It is a snare and a delusion!” she moaned. “An abomination in the Land. It lies lovely and cruel before the eyes, and seduces all

  who look upon it to their destruction. It is impervious to the Sunbane!”

  “Impossible!” snapped Sunder.

  “No!” Hollian panted. “I speak truly. Sun after sun, it remains unaltered, imitating paradise.” She thrust all her dismay at Covenant. “Many people have been betrayed— The tale of them is often told in all this region. But I speak not only of tales. I have known four—four brave Stonedownors who succumbed to that lure. Distraught by their lives, they left Crystal Stonedown to test the tale of Andelain. Two entered, and did not return. Two made their way to Crystal Stonedown once more—and the madness in them raved like the na-Mhoram’s Grim. No succor could anele their violence. Croft was driven to sacrifice them.

  “Covenant,” she begged, “do not journey there. You will meet a doom more terrible than any unshielded Sunbane.” Her every word vibrated with conviction, with honest fear. “Andelain is a desecration of the soul.”

  Roughly, Covenant thrust the eh-Brand away from him. He whirled, strode down the slope to stand at the water’s edge. His fists clenched and unclenched, trembling, at his sides.

  Linden went to him at once, seeking a way to dissuade him. She believed Hollian. But when she touched his arm, the savagery in him struck her mute. “Andelain.” His voice was taut with fatality and rage. Without warning, he turned on her. His eyes blazed through her. “You say you’ve stood by me.” His whisper expressed more bloodshed than any shout. “Do it now. Nothing else matters. Stand by me.”

  Before she could try to respond, he spun toward Sunder and Hollian. They stared at him, dumbfounded by his passion. The sun limned his profile like a cynosure. “Andelain used to be the heart of the Land.” He sounded as if he were strangling. “I have to find out what happened to it.” The next moment, he was in the water, swimming downriver with all his strength.

  Linden checked herself, did not follow him. He could not keep up that pace; she would be able to rejoin him. Stand by me. Her senses told her that Hollian spoke the truth. There was something heinous concealed in Andelain. But Covenant’s appeal outweighed any conviction of peril. She had striven with the intimacy of a lover to save his life. The cost of that intimacy she could not endure; but she could do other things for him. She faced the Stonedownors. “Sunder?”

  The Graveler glanced away along the River, then over at Hollian, before he met Linden’s demand. “The eh-Brand is a Stonedownor,” he replied, “like myself. I trust her fear. But my lot now lies with the ur-Lord. I will accompany him.”

  With a simple nod, Linden accepted his decision. “Hollian?”

  The eh-Brand seemed unable to confront the choice she had to make. Her eyes wandered the stone, searching it for answers it did not contain. “Does it come to this?” she murmured bitterly, “that I have been rescued from peril into peril?” But slowly she summoned up the strength which had enabled her to face Croft and Sivit with dignity. “It is stated in the Rede beyond any doubt that the Halfhand is a servant of a-Jeroth.”

  Flatly Linden said, “The Rede is wrong.”

  “That cannot be!” Hollian’s fear was palpable in the air. “If the Rede is false, how can it sustain life?”

  Unexpectedly Sunder interposed himself. “Eh-Brand.” His voice knotted as if he had arrived without warning or preparation at a crisis. “Linden Avery speaks of another wrong altogether. To her, all things are wrong which arise from the Sunbane.”

  Hollian stared at him. And Linden, too, watched him narrowly. She chaffed to be on her way; but the Graveler’s efforts to resolve his own feelings kept her still.

  “Eh-Brand,” he went on, gritting his teeth, “I have held you in resentment. Your presence is a reproach to me. You are a Stonedownor. You comprehend what has come to pass when a Graveler betrays his home. Whether you choose or no, you accuse me. And your plight is enviable to me. You are innocent of where you stand. Whatever pa
th you follow from this place, none can lay blame upon you. All my paths are paths of blame.

  “My vindication has been that I am necessary to the ur-Lord, and to Linden Avery, and to their purpose. His vision touched my heart, and the survival of that vision has been in my hands. Lacking my aid, they would be long dead, and with them the one clear word of beauty I have been given to hear.

  “Whether you choose or no, you deprive me of my necessity. Your knowledge of the Sunbane and of the perils before us surely excels mine. You give healing where I cannot. You have not shed life. In your presence, I have no answer to my guilt.”

  “Sunder,” Hollian breathed. “Graveler. This castigation avails nothing. The past is beyond change. Your vindication cannot be taken from you.”

  “All things change,” he replied tightly. “Ur-Lord Covenant alters the past at every turning. Therefore”—he cut off her protest—“I am without choice, I cannot bear that this alteration should be undone. But there is choice for you. And because you own choice, eh-Brand, I implore you. Give your service to the ur-Lord. He offers much—and is in such need. Your aid is greater than mine.”

  Hollian’s gaze scoured him as he spoke. But she did not find any answer to her fear. “Ah,” she sighed bitterly, “I do not see this choice. Death lies behind me and horror before. This is not choice. It is torment.”

  “It is choice!” Sunder shouted, unable to restrain his vehemence. “Neither death nor horror is compulsory for you. You may depart from us. Find a new people to be your home. They will distrust you for a time—but that will pass. No Stonedown would willingly sacrifice an eh-Brand.”

  His words took both Hollian and Linden by surprise. Hollian had plainly given no thought to the idea he raised. And Linden could not guess why he used such an argument. “Sunder,” she said carefully, “what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I seek to persuade her.” He did not take his eyes from Hollian. “A choice made freely is stronger than one compelled. We must have her strength—else I fear we will not gain Revelstone.”