The Wounded Land

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Within the scraps of herself, Linden begged Sunder to support Hollian’s lie, for his own sake as well as for Covenant’s.

  Slowly the Graveler unlocked his jaw. Clarity moved behind the dullness of his eyes. Terribly through his knotted throat, he grated, “I wish you to fear.”

  A faint smile like a promise of murder touched the Raver’s lips. But, as with Santonin, the certainty of his purpose restrained him. To the Rider, he said, “Convey them to the hold.” Linden could not see whether he believed Hollian’s lie. She could descry nothing but the loud wrong of the Raver’s purpose.

  With a few words, Santonin returned the Stonedownors to Linden’s condition. Walking like wooden articulations of his will, his captives followed him dumbly out of the stone pit.

  Again, they traversed halls which had no meaning, crossed thresholds that seemed to appear only to be forgotten. Soon they entered a cavern lined into the distance on both sides with iron doors. Small barred windows in the doors exposed each cell, but Linden was incapable of looking for any glimpse of other prisoners. Santonin locked away first Sunder, then Hollian. Farther down the row of doors, he sent Linden herself into a cell.

  She stood, helpless and soul-naked, beside a rank straw pallet while he studied her as if he were considering the cost of his desires. Without warning, he quenched his rukh. His will vanished from her mind, leaving her too empty to hold herself upright. As she crumpled to the pallet, she heard him chuckling softly. Then the door clanged shut and bolts rasped into place. She was left alone in her cell as if it contained nothing except the louse-ridden pallet and the blank stone of the walls.

  She huddled foetally on the straw, while time passed over her like the indifference of Revelstone’s granite. She was a cracked gourd and could not refill herself. She was afraid to make the attempt, afraid even to think of making any attempt. Horror had burrowed into her soul. She desired nothing but silence and darkness, the peace of oblivion. But she could not achieve it. Caught in the limbo between revulsion and death, she crouched among her emptinesses, and waited for the contradictions of her dilemma to tear her apart.

  Guards came and went, bringing her unsavory food and stale water; but she could not muster enough of herself to notice them. She was deaf to the clashing of iron which marked the movements of the guards, the arrival or departure of prisoners. Iron meant nothing. There were no voices. She would have listened to voices. Her mind groped numbly for some image to preserve her sanity, some name or answer to reinvoke the identity she had lost. But she lost all names, all images. The cell held no answers.

  Then there was a voice, a shout as if a prisoner had broken free. She heard it through her stupor, clung to it. Fighting the cramps of motionlessness, the rigidity of hunger and thirst, she crawled like a cripple toward the door.

  Someone spoke in a flat tone. A voice unlike any she had heard before. She was so grateful for it that at first she hardly caught the words. She was clawing herself up toward the bars of her window when the words themselves penetrated her.

  “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant,” the voice was saying. “Unbeliever and white gold wielder, I salute you. You are remembered among the Haruchai,” The speaker was inflexible, denying his own need. “I am Brinn. Will you set us free?”

  Covenant! She would have screamed the name, but her throat was too dry even to whisper.

  The next instant, she heard the impact of iron on flesh. Covenant! A body slumped to the stone. Guards moved around it. Hauling herself to the window, she crushed her face against the bars and tried to see; but no one entered her range of vision. A moment later, feet made heavy by a burden moved out of the hold, leaving her lorn under a cairn of silence.

  She wanted to sob; but even that was an improvement for her. She had been given a name to fill her emptiness. Covenant. Helplessness and hope. Covenant was still alive. He was here. He could save her. He did not know that she needed saving.

  For a time which seemed long and full of anguish, she slumped against the door while her chest shook with dry sobs and her heart clung to the image of Thomas Covenant. He had smiled for Joan. He was vulnerable to everything, and yet he appeared indomitable. Surely the guards had not killed him?

  Perhaps they had. Perhaps they had not. His name itself was hope to her. It gave her something to be, restored pieces of who she was. When exhaustion etiolated her sobbing, she crept to her water-bowl, drank it dry, then ate as much of the rancid food as she could stomach. Afterward she slept for a while.

  But the next iron clanging yanked her awake. The bolts of her door were thrown back. Her heart yammered as she rolled from the pallet and lurched desperately to her feet. Covenant—?

  Her door opened. The Raver entered her cell.

  He seemed to have no features, no hands; wherever his robe bared his flesh, such potent emanations of ill lanced from him that she could not register his physical being. Wrong scorched the air between them, thrusting her back against the wall. He reeked of Marid, of the malice of bees. Of Joan. His breath filled the cell with gangrene and nausea. When he spoke, his voice seemed to rot in her ears.

  “So it appears that your companions lied. I am astonished. I had thought all the people of the Land to be cravens and children. But no matter. The destruction of cravens and children is small pleasure. I prefer the folly of courage in my victims. Fortunately the Unbeliever”—he sneered the name—“will not attempt your redemption. He is unwitting of your plight.”

  She tried to squeeze herself into the stone, strove to escape through bluff granite. But her body, mortal and useless, trapped her in the Raver’s stare. She could not shut her eyes to him. He burned along her nerves, etching himself into her, demeaning her soul with the intaglio of his ill.

  “But he also,” continued the Raver in a tone like stagnant water, “is no great matter. Only his ring signifies. He will have no choice but to surrender it. Already he has sold himself, and no power under the Arch of Tune can prevent his despair.

  “No, Linden Avery,” the Raver said without a pause. “Abandon all hope of Thomas Covenant. The principal doom of the Land is upon your shoulders.”

  No! She had no defense against so much corruption. Night crowded around her, more cruel than any darkness—night as old as the pain of children, parents who sought to die. Never!

  “You have been especially chosen for this desecration. You are being forged as iron is forged to achieve the ruin of the Earth.” His voice violated all her flesh. “You have been chosen, Linden Avery, because you can see. Because you are open to that which no other in the Land can discern, you are open to be forged. Through eyes and ears and touch, you are made to be what the Despiser requires. Descrying destruction, you will be driven to commit all destruction. I will relish that ruin.

  “Therefore I have forewarned you. So that you will know your peril, and be unable to evade it. So that as you strive to evade it, the Despiser may laugh in scorn and triumph.”

  No. It was not possible. She was a doctor; she could not be forced to destroy. No power, no cunning, no malevolence, could unmake who she chose to be. Never! A rush of words surged up in her, burst from her as if she were babbling.

  “You’re sick. This is all sickness. It’s just disease. You have some disease that rots your mind. Physiological insanity. A chemical imbalance of the brain. You don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t believe in evil!”

  “No?” The Raver was mildly amused. “Forsooth. That lie, at least, I must rectify.” He advanced on her like a tide of slaughter. “You have committed murder. Are you not evil?”

  He spread his arms as if he meant to embrace her. He had no face, no hands. A bright hallucination at the sleeve of his robe stretched toward her, caressed her cheek.

  Terror bloomed from the touch like a nightshade of the soul. Gelid ill froze her face, spread ice across her senses like the concatenation and fulfillment of all her instinctive revulsion. It flamed through her and became truth. The truth of Despite. Wrong suppurated over her features,
festering her severity and beauty, corrupting who she was. The Sunbane shone in her flesh: desert, pestilence, the screaming of trees. She would have howled, but she had no voice.

  She fled. There was no other defense. Within herself, she ran away. She closed her eyes, her ears, her mouth, closed the nerves of her skin, sealed every entrance to her mind. No. Horror gave her the power of paralysis. Never. Striking herself blind and deaf and numb, she sank into the darkness as if it were death, the ineluctable legacy of her birth.

  Never again.

  SIXTEEN: The Weird of the Waynhim

  I won’t!

  Covenant fought to sit up, struggled against blankets that clogged his movements, hands that restrained him.

  I’ll never give it up!

  Blindly he wrestled for freedom. But a massive weakness fettered him where he lay. His right arm was pinned by a preterite memory of pain.

  I don’t care what you do to me!

  And the grass under him was fragrant and soporific. The hands could not be refused. An uncertain blur of vision eased the darkness. The face bending over him was gentle and human.

  “Rest, ring-wielder,” the man said kindly. “No harm will come upon you in this sanctuary. There will be time enough for urgency when you are somewhat better healed.”

  The voice blunted his desperation. The analystic scent of the grass reassured and comforted him. His need to go after Linden mumbled past his lips, but he could no longer hear it.

  The next time he awakened, he arrived at consciousness slowly, and all his senses came with him. When he opened his eyes, he was able to see. After blinking for a moment at the smooth dome of stone above him, he understood that he was underground. Though he lay on deep fresh grass, he could not mistake the fact that this spacious chamber had been carved out of the earth. The light came from braziers in the corners of the room.

  The face he had seen earlier returned. The man smiled at him, helped him into a sitting position. “Have care, ring-wielder. You have been mortally ill. This weakness will be slow to depart.” The man placed a bowl of dark fluid in Covenant’s hands and gently pressed him to drink. The liquid had a musty, alien flavor; but it steadied him as it went down into his emptiness.

  He began to look around more closely. His bed was in the center of the chamber, raised above the floor like a catafalque of grass. The native stone of the walls and dome had been meticulously smoothed and shaped. The ceiling was not high, but he would be able to stand erect. Low entryways marked opposite walls of the room. The braziers were made of unadorned gray stone and supported by iron tripods. The thick, black fluid in them burned without smoke.

  When he turned his head far enough, he found Vain near him.

  The Demondim-spawn stood with his arms hanging slightly bent. His lips wore a fault, ambiguous smile, and his eyes, black without pupil or iris, looked like the orbs of a blind man.

  A quiver of revulsion shook Covenant. “Get—” His voice scraped his throat like a rusty knife. “Get him out of here.”

  The man supported him with an arm around his back. “Perhaps it could be done,” he said, smiling wryly. “But great force would be required. Do you have cause to fear him?”

  “He—” Covenant winced at chancrous memories: Sunbane victims dancing; Vain’s grin. He had difficulty forcing words past the blade in his throat. “Refused to help me.” The thought of his own need made him tremble. “Get rid of him.”

  “Ah, ring-wielder,” the man said with a frown, “such questions are not so blithely answered. There is much that I must tell you—and much I wish to be told.”

  He faced Covenant; and Covenant observed him clearly for the first time. He had the dark hair and stocky frame of a Stonedownor, though he wore nothing but a wide piece of leather belted around his waist. The softness of his brown eyes suggested sympathy; but his cheeks had been deeply cut by old grief, and the twitching of his mouth gave the impression that he was too well acquainted with fear and incomprehension. His skin had the distinctive pallor of a man who had once been richly tanned. Covenant felt an immediate surge of empathy for him.

  “I am Hamako,” the man said. “My former name was one which the Waynhim could not utter, and I have foresworn it. The Waynhim name you ring-wielder in their tongue—and as ring-wielder you are well known to them. But I will gladly make use of any other name you desire.”

  Covenant swallowed, took another drink from the bowl. “Covenant,” he said hoarsely. “I’m Thomas Covenant.”

  The man accepted this with a nod. “Covenant.” Then he returned to the question of Vain. “For two days,” he said, “while you have lain in fever, the Waynhim have striven with the riddle of this Demondim-spawn. They have found purpose in him, but not harm. This is an astonishment to them, for they perceive clearly the hands of the ur-viles which made him, and they have no trust for ur-viles. Yet he is an embodiment of lore which the Waynhim comprehend. Only one question disturbs them.” Hamako paused as if reluctant to remind Covenant of past horrors. “When you freed dhraga Waynhim from fire, thus imperiling your own life, dhraga spoke the word of command to this Demondim-spawn, ordering him to preserve you. Why did he not obey?”

  The dark fluid salved Covenant’s throat, but he still sounded harsh. “I already used the command. He killed six people.”

  “Ah,” said Hamako. He turned from Covenant, and called down one of the entryways in a barking tongue. Almost immediately, a Waynhim entered the chamber. The creature sniffed inquiringly in Covenant’s direction, then began a rapid conversation with Hamako. Their voices had a roynish sound that grated on Covenant’s nerves—he had too many horrid memories of ur-viles—but he suppressed his discomfort, tried not to think balefully of Vain. Shortly the Waynhim trotted away as if it carried important information. Hamako returned his attention to Covenant.

  The man’s gaze was full of questions as he said, “Then you came not upon this Demondim-spawn by chance. He did not seek you out without your knowledge.”

  Covenant shook his head.

  “He was given to you,” Hamako continued, “by those who know his purpose. You comprehend him.”

  “No. I mean, yes, he was given to me. I was told how to command him. I was told to trust him.” He scowled at the idea of Vain’s trustworthiness. “But nothing else.”

  Hamako searched for the right way to phrase his question. “May I ask—who was the giver?”

  Covenant felt reluctant to answer directly. He did not distrust Hamako; he simply did not want to discuss his experience with his Dead. So he replied gruffly, “I was in Andelain.”

  “Ah, Andelain,” Hamako breathed. “The Dead.” He nodded in comprehension, but it did not relieve his awkwardness.

  Abruptly Covenant’s intuition leaped. “You know what his purpose is.” He had often heard that the lore of the Waynhim was wide and subtle. “But you’re not going to tell me.”

  Bamako’s mouth twitched painfully. “Covenant,” he said, pleading to be understood, “the Dead were your friends, were they not? Their concern for you is ancient and far-seeing. It is sooth—the Waynhim ken much, and guess more. Doubtless there are many questions to which they hold answers. But—”

  Covenant interrupted him. “You know how to fight the Sunbane, and you’re not going to tell me that either.”

  His tone made Hamako wince. “Surely your Dead have given to you all which may be wisely told. Ah, Thomas Covenant! My heart yearns to share with you the lore of the Waynhim. But they have instructed me strictly to forbear. For many reasons.

  “They are ever loath to impart knowledge where they cannot control the use to which their knowledge is placed. For the ring-wielder, perhaps they would waive such considerations. But they have not the vision of the Dead, and fear to transgress the strictures which have guided the gifts of the Dead. This is the paradox of lore, that it must be achieved rather than granted, else it misleads. This only I am permitted to say. Were I to reveal the purpose of this Demondim-spawn, that revelation could well pr
event the accomplishment of his purpose.” Hamako’s face held a look of supplication. “That purpose is greatly desirable.”

  “At any rate, the ur-viles desire it greatly.” Frustration and weakness made Covenant sarcastic. “Maybe these Waynhim aren’t as different as you think.”

  He emptied the bowl, then tried to get to his feet. But Hamako held him back. Covenant had touched anger in the man. Stiffly Hamako said, “I owe life and health and use to the succor of the Waynhim. Aye, and many things more. I will not betray their wishes to ease your mind, ring-wielder though you are.”

  Covenant thrust against Hamako’s grasp, but could not break free. After an effort like palsy, he collapsed back on the grass. “You said two days,” he panted. Futility enfeebled him. Two more days! “I’ve got to go. I’m already too far behind.”

  “You have been deeply harmed,” Hamako replied. “Your flesh will not yet bear you. What urgency drives you?”

  Covenant repressed a querulous retort. He could not denigrate Hamako’s refusal to answer crucial questions; he had done such things himself. When he had mastered his gall, he said, “Three friends of mine were kidnapped by a Rider. They’re on their way to Revelstone. If I don’t catch up with them in time, they’ll be killed.”

  Hamako absorbed this information, then called again for one of the Waynhim. Another rapid conversation took place. Hamako seemed to be stressing something, urging something; the responses of the Waynhim sounded thoughtful, unpersuaded. But the creature ended on a note which satisfied Hamako. As the Waynhim departed, he turned back to Covenant.

  “Durhisitar will consult the Weird of the Waynhim,” the man said, “but I doubt not that aid will be granted. No Waynhim will forget the redemption of dhraga—or the peril of the trap which ensnared you. Rest now, and fear not. This rhysh will accord you power to pursue your companions.”

  “How? What can they do?”