Content? Covenant wanted to snarl. Oh, sure! Where the goddamn bloody hell is Linden? But he repressed that impulse. He did not wish to betray how much his companions mattered to him. Instead, he said, “I’ll be fine. As long as nobody tries to stick a knife into me—or lock my door—or poison my food.”
Gibbon’s beatitude smothered every emotion. His eyes were as bland as their color permitted. He regarded Covenant for a moment, then moved to the table. Slowly he ate a bite from every dish on the tray—dried fruit, bread, stew—and washed them down with a swallow from the flask. Holding Covenant’s gaze, he said, “Halfhand, this mistrust does not become you. I am moved to ask why you are here, when you expect such ill at our hands.”
That question Covenant was prepared to answer honestly. “Not counting what happened to my friends, I need information. I need to understand this Sunbane. So I need the Clave. The villagers I’ve met—” They had been too busy trying to kill him to answer questions. “They just survive. They don’t understand. I want to know what causes the Sunbane. So I can fight it.”
Gibbon’s red eyes glinted ambiguously. “Very well,” he replied in a tone that expressed no interest in what he heard or said. “As to fighting the Sunbane, I must ask you to wait until the morrow. The Clave rests at night. But the causes of the Sunbane are plain enough. It is the Master’s wrath against the Land for the evil of past service to a-Jeroth.”
Covenant growled inwardly. That idea was either a lie or a cruel perversion. But he did not intend to argue metaphysics with Gibbon. “That isn’t what I mean. I need something more practical. How is it done? How did it happen? How does it work?”
Gibbon’s gaze did not waver. “Halfhand, if I possessed such knowledge, I would make use of it myself.”
Terrific. Covenant did not know whether to believe the na-Mhoram. A wave of emotional fatigue rolled over him. He began to see how hard it would be to glean the information he needed; and his courage quailed. He did not know the right questions. He simply nodded when Gibbon said, “You are weary. Eat, now. Sleep. Perhaps the morrow will bring new insight.”
But as Gibbon moved to the door, Covenant felt compelled to try once more. “Tell me. How come Glimmermere still has water?”
“We moderate the Sunbane,” the na-Mhoram answered with easy patience. “Therefore the Earth retains some vitality.” A blink of hesitation touched his eyes, vanished. “An old legend avers that a nameless periapt lies in the deeps of the lake, sustaining it against the Sunbane.”
Covenant nodded again. He knew of at least one thing, powerful or not, which lay at the bottom of Glimmermere.
Then Gibbon left the room, closing the door behind him, and Covenant was alone.
He remained still for a while, allowing his weakness to flow over him. Then he took a chair out onto the balcony, so that he could sit and think in the privacy of the night.
His balcony stood halfway up the south face of the Keep. A gibbous moon was rising, and he was able to descry the vast dark jumble of trees left by the fertile sun. Sitting with his feet braced against the rail of the balcony to appease his fear of heights, he ran his fingers through his tangled beard, and tried to come to grips with his dilemma.
He did not in fact anticipate a physical attempt upon his life. He had insisted on the necessity of freedom in order to remind the Clave that they would gain nothing by killing him; but the truth was that he accused the Clave of meditating murder primarily as a release for an entirely different dread.
He was afraid for Linden, poignantly afraid that his friends were in far more danger than he was. And this fear was aggravated by his helplessness. Where were they? Were Gibbon and Memla lying about Santonin? If so, how could he learn the truth? If not, what could he do? He felt crippled without Linden; he needed her perceptions. She would have been able to tell him whether or not Gibbon was honest.
Cursing the numbness of his leprosy, he asked the night why he of all people in the Land—Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder, who had once mastered the Despiser in mortal combat—why he should feel so helpless. And the answer was that his self-knowledge, his fundamental confidence in what he was, was torn by doubt. His resources had become a contradiction. All the conscious extremity of his will was unable to call up one jot or tittle of power from his ring; yet when he was delirious, he exerted a feral might utterly beyond conscious control. Therefore he distrusted himself, and did not know what to do.
But to that question the night turned a deaf ear. Finally he abandoned the interrogation, and set about preparing for sleep.
In the bathroom, he stripped off his clothes, scrubbed both them and himself thoroughly, then draped them over chair backs to dry. He felt vulnerable in his nakedness; but he accepted that risk by eating the food he had been given, drinking to the bottom the flask of metheglin. The mead added a physical drowsiness to his moral fatigue. When he investigated the bed, he found it comfortable and clean-smelling. Expecting nightmares, surprises, anguish, he crouched under the blankets, and slept.
He awoke to the sound of rain—torrents beating like the rush of a river against Revelstone’s granite. The air of the bedroom felt moist; he had not closed off the balcony before going to bed. But for a time he did not move; he lay in the streaming susurration and let the sound carry him toward alertness.
When at last he rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes, he found Vain standing near the bed.
The Demondim-spawn bore himself as always—arms hanging slightly bent, stance relaxed, eyes focused on nothing.
“What the hell—?” Covenant jerked out of bed and hurried into the next room. Rain came slashing in from the balcony, drenching the floor. He braved the deluge, went outside to look for some indication of how Vain had reached him.
Through the downpour, he saw a huge tree bough leaning against the end of the balcony. The butt of the limb rested on another balcony thirty or forty feet below; apparently Vain had climbed several hundred feet up the wall of Revelstone by scaling his bough to the lower abutments, then pulling it up behind him and using it to reach the next parapets, ascending by stages until he gained Covenant’s room. How Vain had known the right room Covenant had no idea.
Scattering water, he rushed back into his suite and swung shut the balcony-door. Naked and dripping, he gaped at the Demondim-spawn, amazed by Vain’s inexplicable capabilities. Then a grim grin twisted his mouth. “Good for you,” he rasped. “This will make them nervous.” Nervous people made mistakes.
Vain gazed vacuously past him like a deaf-mute. Covenant nodded sharply at his thoughts and started toward the bathroom to get a towel. But he was pulled to a halt by the sight of the livid raw patch running from the left side of Vain’s head down his shoulder. He had been injured; his damaged skin oozed a black fluid as if he had been severely burned.
How—? Over the past days, Covenant had become so convinced of Vain’s invulnerability that now he could not think. The Demondim-spawn could be hurt? Surely— But the next instant his astonishment disappeared in a flaring of comprehension. Vain had been attacked by the Clave-Riders testing the mysterious figure outside their gates. They had burned him. Perhaps he had not even deigned to defend himself.
But his mien betrayed no knowledge of pain. After a moment, Covenant went cursing into the bathroom and began to towel himself dry. Bastards! I’ll bet he didn’t lift a finger. Swiftly he donned his clothes, though they were still somewhat damp. Striding to the door of his suite, he pushed it open.
Akkasri na-Mhoram-cro stood in the passage with a fresh tray of food at her feet. Covenant beckoned roughly to her. She picked up the tray and carried it into his suite.
He stopped her inside the doorway, took the new tray and handed her the old one, then dismissed her. He wanted her to have a chance to report Vain’s presence to the na-Mhoram. It was a small revenge, but he took it. Her hood concealed her face, so that he could not see her reaction. But she left with alacrity.
Muttering darkly, he sat do
wn to breakfast.
Shortly after he finished, there was a knock at his door. He thrust the slab of stone open, and was disappointed to find Akkasri alone outside.
“Halfhand,” she said in a muffled tone, “you have asked for knowledge concerning the Clave’s resistance of the Sunbane. The na-Mhoram commands me to serve you. I will guide you to the place where our work is wrought and explain it as best I may.”
This was not what Covenant had expected. “Where’s Gibbon?”
“The na-Mhoram,” replied Akkasri, stressing Gibbon’s title, “has many duties. Though I am only na-Mhoram-cro, I can answer certain inquiries. Gibbon na-Mhoram will attend you, if I do not suffice to your need.”
Oh, hell, he growled. But he concealed his disconcertion. “We’ll see. I’ve got a lot of questions.” He stepped out into the hallway, held the door open for Vain. “Let’s go.”
At once, Akkasri moved off down the passage, ignoring Vain completely. This struck Covenant as unnatural; the Demondim-spawn was not easily discounted. Perhaps she had been told what to do? Then his revenge had not been wasted.
His nerves tightened. Striding at Akkasri’s side, he began his search for comprehension by asking bluntly, “What’s a na-Mhoram-cro?”
“Halfhand,” the woman said without giving him a glimpse of her face, “the na-Mhoram-cro are the novices of the Clave. We have been taught much, but have not yet mastered the rukh sufficiently to become Riders. When we have gained that skill, we will be na-Mhoram-wist. And with much experience and wisdom, some of us will advance to become the hands of the na-Mhoram himself, the na-Mhoram-in. Such is Memla, who bore you to Revelstone. She is greatly honored for her courage and sagacity.”
“If you’re a novice,” he demanded, “how much can you explain?”
“Only Gibbon na-Mhoram holds all the knowledge of the Clave.” Akkasri’s tone was tinged with indignation. “But I am unskilled, not ignorant.”
“All right.” With Vain behind them, she led Covenant downward, tending generally toward the central depths of the Keep. “Tell me this. Where did the Clave come from?”
“Halfhand?”
“It hasn’t been here forever. Other people used to live in Revelstone. What happened to them? How did the Clave get started? Who started it?”
“Ah.” She nodded. “That is a matter of legend. It is said that many and many generations ago, when the Sunbane first appeared in the sky, the Land was governed by a Council. This Council was decadent, and made no effort to meet the peril. Therefore precious time was lost before the coming of the Mhoram.”
Covenant began to recognize where she was taking him; this was the way to the sacred enclosure. He was faintly surprised by the general emptiness of the halls and passages. But he reflected that Revelstone was huge. Several thousand people could live in it without crowding each other.
“It is his vision which guides us now,” the na-Mhoram-cro was saying. “Seeing that the Council had fallen to the guile of a-Jeroth, he arose with those few who retained zeal and foresight, and drove out the treachers. Then began the long struggle of our lives to preserve the Land. From the Mhoram and his few has the Clave descended, generation after generation, na-Mhoram to na-Mhoram, seeking ever to consummate his opposition to the Sunbane.
“It is a slow work. We have been slow to master the skill and gain the numbers which we need—and slow as well to muster blood.” She said the word blood with perfect impersonality, as if it cost nothing. “But now we approach the fruition of our long dream. The Sunbane has reached a rhythm of three days—and we hold. We hold, Halfhand!” She claimed pride; but she spoke blandly, as if pride, too, were impersonal. As if she had been carefully groomed to answer Covenant’s questions.
But he held his suspicion in abeyance. They walked one of the main hallways along the spine of the Keep; and ahead he could see the passage branching to circle left and right around the outer wall of the sacred enclosure, where the long-dead Lords had held their Vespers of self-consecration to the Land and to Peace.
As he drew closer, he observed that all the many doors, which were regularly spaced around the wall and large enough for Giants, were kept shut. The brief opening as a Rider came out of the enclosure revealed a glimpse of lurid red heat and muffled roaring inside.
The na-Mhoram-cro stopped before one of the doors, addressing Covenant. “Speech is difficult within this place.” He wanted to behold her face; she sounded as if she had evasive eyes. But her hood concealed her visage. If he had not seen Memla and Gibbon, he might have suspected that all the Clave were hiding some kind of deformity. “It is the hall of the Banefire and the master-rukh. When you have seen it, we will withdraw, and I will tell you concerning it.”
He nodded in spite of a sudden reluctance to see what the Clave had done to the sacred enclosure. When Akkasri opened the nearest door, he followed her into a flood of heat and noise.
The place blazed with garish fire. The enclosure was an immense cavity in the gut-rock of Revelstone, a cylinder on end, rising from below the level of the foothills more than halfway up the height of the Keep. From a dais on the floor, the Lords had spoken to the city. And in the walls were seven balconies circling the space, one directly above the next. There the people of Revelstone had stood to hear the Lords.
No more. Akkasri had brought Covenant to the fourth balcony; but even here, at least two hundred feet above the floor, he was painfully close to the fire.
It roared upward from a hollow where the dais had been, sprang yowling and raging almost as high as the place where he stood. Red flame clawed the air as if the very roots of the Keep were afire. The blast of heat half-blinded him; the fire seemed to scorch his cheeks, crisp his hair. He had to blink away a blur of tears before he could make out any details.
The first thing he saw was the master-rukh. It rested at three points on the rail of this balcony, a prodigious iron triangle. The center of each arm glowed dull vermeil.
Two members of the Clave stood at each corner of the master-rukh. They seemed impervious to the heat. Their hands gripped the iron, concentrated on it as if the Banefire were a script which they could read by touch. Their faces shone ruddy and fanatical above the flames.
Clearly this was the place from which the red shaft of Sunbane power leaped to the sun.
The doors at the base of the cavity and around the highest balcony were open, providing ventilation. In the lurid brilliance, Covenant saw the domed ceiling for the first time. Somehow the Giants had contrived to carve it ornately. Bold figures strode the stone, depicting scenes from the early history of the Giants in the Land: welcome, gratitude, trust. But the fire made the images appear strangely distorted and malefic.
Grinding his teeth, he cast his gaze downward. A movement at the base of the fire caught his attention. He saw now that several troughs had been cut into the floor, feeding the hollow. A figure appareled like the na-Mhoram-cro approached one of the troughs, carrying two heavy pails which were emptied into the trough. Dark fluid ran like the ichor of Revelstone into the hollow. Almost at once, the Banefire took on a richer texture, deepened toward the ruby hue of blood.
Covenant was suffocating on heat and inchoate passion. His heart struggled in his chest. Brushing past Akkasri and Vain, he hastened toward the nearest corner of the master-rukh.
The people there did not notice him; the deep roar of the flame covered the sound of his boots, and their concentration was intent. He jerked one of them by the shoulder, pulled the individual away from the iron. The person was taller than he—a figure of power and indignation.
Covenant yelled up at the hooded face, “Where’s Santonin?”
A man’s voice answered, barely audible through the howl of the Banefire. “I am a Reader, not a soothreader!”
Covenant gripped the man’s robe. “What happened to him?”
“He has lost his rukh!” the Reader shouted back. “At the command of the na-Mhoram, we have searched for him diligently! If his rukh were destroyed—if
he were slain with his rukh still in his hands—we would know of it. Every rukh answers to the master-rukh, unless it falls into ignorant hands. He would not choose to release his rukh. Therefore he has been overcome and bereft. Perhaps then he was slain. We cannot know!”
“Halfhand!” Akkasri clutched at Covenant’s arm, urging him toward the door.
He let her draw him out of the sacred enclosure. He was dizzy with heat and blind wild hope. Maybe the Reader spoke the truth; maybe his friends had overpowered their captor; maybe they were safe! While the na-Mhoram-cro closed the door, he leaned against the outer wall and panted at the blessedly cool air.
Vain stood near him, as blank and attentive as ever.
Studying Covenant, Akkasri asked, “Shall we return to your chamber? Do you wish to rest?”
He shook his head. He did not want to expose that much of his hope. With an effort, he righted his reeling thoughts. “I’m fine.” His pulse contradicted him; but he trusted she could not perceive such things. “Just explain it. I’ve seen the master-rukh. Now tell me how it works. How you fight the Sunbane.”
“By drawing its power from it,” she answered simply. “If more water is taken from a lake than its springs provide, the lake will be emptied. Thus we resist the Sunbane.
“When the Mhoram first created the Banefire, it was a small thing, and accomplished little. But the Clave has increased it generation after generation, striving for the day when sufficient power would be consumed to halt the advance of the Sunbane.”
Covenant fumbled mentally, then asked, “What do you do with all this power? It’s got to go somewhere.”
“Indeed. We have much use for power, to strengthen the Clave and continue our work. As you have learned, much is drawn by the Riders, so that they may ride and labor in ways no lone man or woman could achieve without a ruinous expenditure of blood. With other power are the Coursers wrought, so that the Sunbane will have no mastery over them. And more is consumed by the living of Revelstone. Crops are grown on the upland plateau—kine and goats nourished—looms and forges driven. In earlier generations, the Clave was hampered by need and paucity. But now we flourish, Halfhand. Unless some grave disaster falls upon us,” Akkasri said in a pointed tone, “we will not fail.”
The Wounded Land Page 37
