The Wounded Land

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Third, there is no power sufficient to oppose the Land’s doom, except power which is drawn from the Sunbane itself. Its might must be reflected against it. No other hope exists. Therefore does the Clave shed the blood of the Land, for blood is the key to the Sunbane. If we do not unlock that power, there will be no end to our perishing.

  “Hear you, Halfhand?” Memla demanded. “I doubt not that in your sojourn you have met much reviling of the Clave. Despite all our labor, Stonedown and Woodhelven must believe that we exact their blood for pleasure or self.” To Covenant’s ears, her acidity was the gall of a woman who instinctively abhorred her conscious convictions. “Be not misled! The cost is sore to us. But we do not flinch from it because it is our sole means to preserve the Land. If you must cast blame, cast it upon a-Jeroth, who incurred the just wrath of the Master—and upon the ancient betrayers, Berek and his ilk, who leagued with a-Jeroth.”

  Covenant wanted to protest. As soon as she mentioned Berek as a betrayer, her speech lost its persuasiveness. He had never known Berek Halfhand; the Lord-Fatherer was already a legend when Covenant had entered the Land. But his knowledge of the effects of Berek’s life was nearly two score centuries more recent than Memla’s. Any set of beliefs which counted Berek a betrayer was founded on a lie; and so any conclusions drawn from that foundation were false. But he kept his protest silent because he could conceive of no way to demonstrate its accuracy. No way short of victory over the Sunbane.

  To spare himself a pointless argument, he said, “I’ll reserve judgment on that for a while. In the meantime, satisfy my curiosity. I’ve got at least a dim notion of who a-Jeroth is. But what are the Seven Hells?”

  Memla was muttering sourly to herself. He suspected that she resented his distrust precisely because it was echoed by a distrust within herself. But she answered brusquely, “They are rain, desert, pestilence, fertility, war, savagery, and darkness. But I believe that there is also an eighth. Blind hostility.”

  After that, she rebuffed his efforts to engage her in any more talk.

  When they halted for the night, he discarded his empty pouch and accepted food from her. And the next morning, he did what he could to help her prepare for the day’s journey.

  Sitting on Din, she faced the sunrise. It crested the horizon like a cynosure in green; and she shook her head. “A fertile sun,” she murmured. “A desert sun wreaks much ruin, and a sun of rain may be a thing of great difficulty. A sun of pestilence carries peril and abhorrence. But for those who must journey, no other sun is as arduous as the sun of fertility. Speak not to me under this sun, I adjure you. If my thoughts wander, our path will also wander.”

  By the time they had covered half a league, new grass blanketed the ground. Young vines crawled visibly from place to place: bushes unfolded buds the color of mint.

  Memla raised her rukh. Uncapping the hollow scepter, she decanted enough blood to smear her hands. Then she started chanting under her breath. A vermilion flame, pale and small in the sunlight, burned within the open triangle.

  Under Din’s hooves, the grass parted along a straight line stretching like a plumb toward Revelstone. Covenant watched the parting disappear into the distance. The line bared no ground; but everything nearby—grass, shrubs, incipient saplings—bent away from it as if an invisible serpent were sliding northwestward through the burgeoning vegetation.

  Along the parting, Din cantered as if it were incapable of surprise.

  Memla’s chant became a low mumble. She rested the end of her rukh on Din’s shoulders; but the triangle and the flame remained erect before her. At every change in the terrain, the verdure thickened, compressing whole seasons into fractions of the day. Yet her line remained open. Trees shunned it; copses parted as if they had been riven by an axe; bushes edging the line had no branches or leaves on that side.

  When Covenant looked behind him, he saw no trace of the path; it closed the moment Memla’s power passed. As a result, Vain had to fend for himself. But he did so with characteristic disinterest, slashing through grass and brush at a run, crashing thickets, tearing across briar patches which left no mark on his black skin. He could not have seemed less conscious of difficulty. Watching the Demondim-spawn, Covenant did not know which amazed him more: Memla’s ability to create this path; or Vain’s ability to travel at such speed without any path.

  That night, Memla explained her line somewhat. Her rukh, she said, drew on the great Banefire in Revelstone, where the Clave did its work against the Sunbane, and the Readers tended the master-rukh. Only the power for the link to the master-rukh came from her; the rest she siphoned from the Banefire. So the making of her path demanded stern concentration, but did not exhaust her. And the nearer she drew to Revelstone, the easier her access to the Banefire became. Thus she was able to form her line again the next day, defying the resistance of huge trees, heather and bracken as high as Din’s shoulders, grass like thickets and thickets like forests.

  Yet Vain was able to match the Courser’s pace. He met the sharper test of each new league as if no size or density of vegetation could ever estimate his limits. And the third day made no change. It intensified still more the extravagance of the verdure, but did not hamper the nonchalant ease with which he followed Din. Time and again, Covenant found himself craning his neck, watching Vain’s progress and wondering at the sheer unconscious force it represented.

  But as the afternoon passed, his thoughts turned from Vain, and he began to look ahead. The mammoth jungle concealed any landmarks the terrain might have offered, but he knew that Revelstone was near. All his anxiety, dread, and anticipation returned to him; and he fought to see through the thronging foliage as if only an early glimpse of the ancient Keep would forewarn him of the needs and hazards hidden there.

  But he received no forewarning. Late in the afternoon, Memla’s path started up a steep hillside. The vegetation suddenly ended on the rock of the foothills. Revelstone appeared before Covenant as if in that instant it had been unfurled from the storehouse of his most vivid memories.

  The Courser had arrived athwart the great stone city, Giant-wrought millennia ago from the gutrock of the plateau. Out of the farthest west, mountains came striding eastward, then, two leagues away on Covenant’s left, dropped sheer to the upland plateau, still a thousand feet and more above the foothills. The plateau narrowed to form a wedged promontory half a league in length; and into this promontory the ancient Giants had delved the immense and intricate habitation of Revelstone.

  The whole cliff-face before Covenant was coigned and fortified, lined with abutments and balconies, punctuated by oriels, architraves, embrasures, from a level fifty or a hundred feet above the foothills to the rim of the plateau. On his left, Revelstone gradually faded into native rock; but on his right, it filled the promontory to the wedge-tip, where the watchtower guarded the massive gates of the Keep.

  The tremendous and familiar size of the city made his heart ache with pride for the Giants he had loved—and with sharp grief, for those Giants had died in a body, slain by a Raver during the war against Lord Foul’s Illearth Stone. He had once heard that there was a pattern graven into the walls of Revelstone, an organization of meaning too huge for un-Giantish minds to grasp; and now he would never have it explained to him.

  But that was not all his grief. The sight of Revelstone recalled other people, friends and antagonists, whom he had hurt and lost: Trell Atiaran-mate; Hile Troy, who had sold his soul to a Forestal so that his army might survive; Saltheart Foamfollower; Elena. High Lord Mhoram. Then Covenant’s sorrow turned to anger as he considered that Mhoram’s name was being used by a Clave which willingly shed innocent blood.

  His wrath tightened as he studied Revelstone itself. Memla’s line ran to a point in the middle of the city; and from the plateau above that point sprang a prodigious vermeil beam, aimed toward the heart of the declining sun. It was like the Sunbane shaft of Sunder’s orcrest; but its sheer size was staggering. Covenant gaped at it, unable to conceive the
number of lives necessary to summon so much power. Revelstone had become a citadel of blood. He felt poignantly that it would never be clean again.

  But then his gaze caught something in the west, a glitter of hope. There, halfway between Revelstone and the Westron Mountains, lay Furl Falls, where the overflow of Glimmermere came down the cliff to form the White River. And the Falls held water; tumbling spray caught the approaching sunset, and shone. The land had been eighteen days without a sun of rain, and six of them had been desert; yet the springs of Glimmermere had not failed.

  Gripping anger and hope between his teeth, Covenant set himself to face whatever lay ahead.

  Memla gave a sigh of accomplishment, and lowered her rukh. Turning Din’s head with a muttered command, she sent the beast trotting toward the gates under the southeast face of the tower.

  The watchtower was barely half the height of the plateau, and its upper reaches stood independent of the main Keep, joined only by wooden crosswalks. Covenant remembered that a courtyard lay open to the sky within the granite walls which sealed the base of the tower to the Keep; and the megalithic stone gates under the watchtower were repeated beyond the courtyard, so that Revelstone possessed a double defense for its only entrance. But as he approached the tower, he was shocked to see that the outer gates lay in rubble. Sometime in the distant past, Revelstone had needed its inner defense.

  The abutments over the ruined gates were deserted, as were the fortifications and embrasures above it; the whole tower seemed empty. Perhaps it was no longer defensible. Perhaps the Clave saw no need to fear the entry of strangers. Or perhaps this air of desertion was a trap to catch the unwary.

  Memla headed directly into the tunnel, which led to the courtyard; but Covenant slipped off Din’s back, lowering himself by handholds of hair. She stopped, looked back at him in surprise. “Here is Revelstone,” she said. “Do you not wish to enter?”

  “First things first.” His shoulders were tight with apprehension. “Send the na-Mhoram out here. I want him to tell me in person that I’ll be safe.”

  “He is the na-Mhoram!” she snapped indignantly. “He does not come or go according to the whims of others.”

  “Good for him.” He controlled his tension with sarcasm. “The next time I have a whim, I’ll keep that in mind.” She opened her mouth to retort. He cut her off. “I’ve already been taken prisoner twice. It’s not going to happen to me again. I’m not going in there until I talk to the na-Mhoram.” On the spur of a sudden intuition, he added, “Tell him I understand the necessity of freedom as well as he does. He can’t get what he wants by coercion. He’s just going to have to cooperate.”

  Memla glared at him for a moment, then muttered, “As you wish.” With a gruff command, she sent Din into the tunnel, leaving Covenant alone with Vain.

  Covenant took hold of his anxiety, and waited. Across the peaks, the sun was setting in green and lavender; the shadow of Revelstone spread out over the monstrous verdure like an aegis of darkness. Watching the tower for signs of hostile intent, he observed that no pennons flew from its crown. None were needed: the hot red shaft of Sunbane-force marked Revelstone as the home of the Clave more surely than any oriflamme.

  Unable to possess himself in patience, he growled to Vain, “I’m damned if I know what you want here. But I’ve got too many other problems. You’ll have to take care of yourself.”

  Vain did not respond. He seemed incapable of hearing.

  Then Covenant saw movement in the tunnel. A short man wearing a stark black robe and a red chasuble came out past the ruined gates. He carried an iron crozier as tall as himself, with an open triangle at one end. He did not use the hood of his robe; his round face, bald head, and beardless cheeks were exposed. His visage was irenic, formed in a mold of habitual beatitude or boredom, as if he knew from experience that nothing in life could ruffle his composure. Only his eyes contradicted the hebetude of his mien. They were a piercing red.

  “Halfhand,” he said dully. “Be welcome in Revelstone. I am Gibbon na-Mhoram.”

  The simple blandness of the man’s manner made Covenant uncomfortable. “Memla tells me I’m safe here,” he said. “How am I supposed to believe that, when you’ve been trying to kill me ever since I first set foot in the Land?”

  “You represent great peril to us, Halfhand.” Gibbon spoke as if he were half asleep. “But I have come to believe that you also represent great promise. In the name of that promise, I accept the risk of the peril. The Land has need of every power. I have come to you alone so that you may see the truth of what I say. You are as safe among us as your own purposes permit.”

  Covenant wanted to challenge that assertion; but he was not ready to hazard a test. He changed his tack. “Where’s Santonin?”

  Gibbon did not blink. “Memla na-Mhoram-in spoke to me of your belief that your companions have fallen into the hands of a Rider. I know nothing of this. Santonin has been long from Revelstone. We feel concern for him. His rukh is silent. Perhaps—if what you say of him is true—your companions have mastered him, and taken his rukh. I have already commanded the Riders who were sent to meet you to begin a search. If your companions are found, I assure you that we shall value their safety.”

  Covenant had no answer. He scowled at the na-Mhoram, and remained silent.

  The man showed no uncertainty or confusion. He nodded toward Vain, and said, “Now I must ask you concerning your companion. His power is evident, but we do not comprehend him.”

  “You see him,” Covenant muttered. “You know as much about him as I do.”

  Gibbon permitted his gaze to widen. But he did not mention his incredulity. Instead, he said, “My knowledge of him is nothing. Therefore I will not permit him to enter Revelstone.”

  Covenant shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you can keep him out, you’re welcome.”

  “That will be seen.” The na-Mhoram gestured toward the tunnel. “Will you accompany me?”

  For one more moment, Covenant hesitated. Then he said, “I don’t think I have much choice.”

  Gibbon nodded ambiguously, acknowledging either Covenant’s decision or his lack of options, and turned toward the tower.

  Walking behind the na-Mhoram, Covenant entered the tunnel as if it were a gullet into peril. His shoulders hunched involuntarily against his fear that people might leap on him from the openings in the ceiling. But nothing attacked him. Amid the echoing of his footsteps, he passed through to the courtyard.

  There he saw that the inner gates were intact. They were open only wide enough to admit the na-Mhoram. Members of the Clave stood guard on the fortifications over the entrance.

  Motioning for Covenant to follow him, Gibbon slipped between the huge stone doors.

  Hellfire, Covenant rasped, denying his trepidation. With Vain at his back, he moved forward.

  The gates were poised like jaws. The instant he passed them, they closed with a hollow granite thud, sealing Vain outside.

  There was no light. Revelstone crouched around Covenant, as dark as a prison.

  EIGHTEEN: Revelstone in Rain

  “Gibbon!” Fear and ire lashed Covenant’s voice.

  “Ah, your pardon,” the na-Mhoram replied out of the darkness. “You desire light. A moment.”

  Robes rustled around Covenant. He flung his arms wide to ward them off; but they did not assail him. Then he heard a word of command. Red flame burst from the triangle of a rukh. Other lights followed. In moments, the high, wide entry hall of Revelstone was garishly incarnadine.

  “Your pardon,” Gibbon repeated. “Revelstone is a place of caution. The Clave is unjustly despised by many, as your own mistrust demonstrates. Therefore we admit strangers warily.”

  Groping to recover his inner balance, Covenant grated, “Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe there’s a reason why people don’t like you?”

  “Their mislike is natural,” said the na-Mhoram, unperturbed. “Their lives are fear from dawn to dusk, and they do not behold the fruit of our l
abor. How should they believe us when we say that without us they would perish? We do not resent this. But we take caution against it.”

  Gibbon’s explanation sounded dangerously plausible. Yet Covenant distrusted the na-Mhoram’s lack of passion. Because he could think of no apt retort, he simply nodded when Gibbon asked, “Will you come?” At the na-Mhoram’s side, he walked down the hall, flanked by members of the Clave carrying fires.

  The hall was as large as a cavern; it had been formed by Giants to accommodate Giants. But Gibbon soon turned from it into a side passage, and began to ascend broad stairways toward the upper levels of the city. Revelstone was as complex as a maze because it had been laid out according to criteria known only to the long-dead Giants. However, it was familiar to Covenant; though he had not been here for ten of his years, he found that he knew his way. He took a grim satisfaction from the fact.

  Loyal to the Keep he remembered, he followed Gibbon upward and away from the spine of Revelstone. Once the entry hall was well behind them, their way was lit by torches smoking in sconces along the walls. Before long, they entered a corridor marked at long intervals by granite doors with wooden handles. Opposite one of them stood a hooded figure wearing a red robe but no chasuble. When the na-Mhoram approached, the figure opened the door for him. Covenant took a moment to be sure the entrance had no hidden locks or bolts, then went in after Gibbon.

  Beyond the door lay a suite of rooms: a central area containing stone chairs and a table; a bedroom to one side and a bathroom to the other; an outer balcony. On the table was a tray of food. Brands lit the suite, covering the air with a patina of smoke. Remembering the untrammeled fires of the Lords, Covenant began to marshal bitter questions for the na-Mhoram.

  “You will have comfort here,” Gibbon said. “But if you are displeased, we will provide any quarters you require. Revelstone is larger than the Clave, and much unused.” Beckoning for the hooded figure beyond the doorway, he continued, “This is Akkasri na-Mhoram-cro. She will answer your wants. Speak to her of any lack or desire.” The hooded woman bowed without revealing her face or hands, and withdrew. “Halfhand, are you content?”