When they passed out of the cavern into the mazing, Giant-planned ways of the great Keep, they were suddenly attacked by a small band of Riders. But the proximity of rukh-fire triggered his ring. The Riders were swept away in a wash of midnight.
The dark was complete for a short distance. Ahead, however, the normal lights of the city burned, torches smoking in sconces along the walls. No fires of the Lords had ever smoked: their flames had not harmed the essential wood. The Clave kept its passage lit so that Gibbon could move his forces from place to place; but these halls were empty. They echoed like crypts. Much beauty had died here, been undone by time or malice.
Behind him Covenant heard the sounds of renewed combat; and his shoulders flinched.
“They can take care of themselves,” Linden gritted, holding her fear for her friends between her teeth. “This way.”
Covenant stayed with her as she turned toward a side-passage and started down a long sequence of stairs toward the roots of Revelstone.
Her perception of the Raver made no mistakes. Not uncertainty, but only her ignorance of the Keep, caused her to take occasional corridors or turnings which did not lead toward her goal. At intervals, Riders appeared from nowhere to attack and retreat again as if they raised their fire for no other reason than to mark Covenant's progress through the Keep. They posed no danger in themselves; his defences were instantaneous and thorough. But each onslaught accentuated his dizziness, weakened his control. His ability to suppress the black raving frayed. He had to lean on Linden as if she were one of the Haruchai.
Always the path she chose tended downward; and after a while he felt a sick conviction that he knew where she was going-where Gibbon had decided to hazard his fate. The place where any violence would do the most damage. His forearm throbbed as if it had been freshly bitten Then Linden opened a small, heavy door in a chamber which had once been a meeting hall, with curtains on its walls; and a long twisting stairwell gaped below them. Now he was sure. Night gyred up out of the depths; he thought that he would fall. But he did not. She upheld him. Only his nightmares gathered around him as they made the long descent toward the place where Gibbon meant to break him.
Abruptly, she stopped, wheeled to look upward. A man came down the stairs, as noiseless as wings. In a moment, the Haruchai reached them.
Cail.
He faced Covenant. Haste did not heighten his respiration; disobedience did not abash him. “Ur-Lord,” he said, “I bring word of what transpires above.”
Covenant blinked at the Haruchai; but the nauseous whirl of his vision blurred everything.
“It is fortunate that voure was readily found. The company, is now sorely beleaguered. That battle is one to wring the heart”- he spoke as if he had no heart- “for it is fought in large part by those who should not give battle. Among the few Riders are many others who merely serve the Clave and Revelstone. They are cooks and herders, artisans and scullions, tenders of hearth and Courser. They have no skill for this work, and it is a shameful thing to slay them. Yet they will not be halted or daunted. A possession is upon them. They accept naught but their own slaughter. Felling them, Pitchwife weeps as no Haruchai has ever wept.” Call spoke flatly; but Linden's grasp on Covenant's arm conveyed a visceral tremor of the emotion Cail projected, “Voure and vitrim enable the company for defence,” he went on. “And the hold has been opened. There were found Stell and some few other Haruchai, though no villagers. They have gone to the support of the company. The Graveler and the eh-brand are well. But of neither the First nor the Master have we seen sign.”
Then he stopped. He did not ask permission to remain with Covenant; his stance showed that he had no intention of leaving.
Because Covenant said nothing. Linden breathed for him, “Thanks. Thanks for coming.” Her voice ached on behalf of the innocent men and women who were Gibbon's victims-and of her companions, who had no choice—
But Covenant had passed beyond the details of pain and loss into a state of utter purpose, of unanodyned grief and quintessential fury. Felling them, Pitchwife weeps as no haruchai has ever wept. That must be true; Cail would not lie. But it was only one more drop in an ocean eating away the very shores of Time. The ocean of Lord Foul's cruelty. Such things could not be permitted to continue.
Lifting himself out of vertigo and Linden's grasp, the Unbeliever started downward again.
She called his name, but he did not answer. With Cail at her side, she came hastening after him.
The way was not long now. Soon he reached the bottom of the stairwell, halted in front of a blank wall that he remembered-a wall with an invisible door which he had seen only once before and never been asked to open. He did not know how to open it. But that did not matter. What mattered was that Gibbon had chosen this place, this place, for his battleground. Simple dismay added a twist which nearly snapped the knot of Covenant's self-command.
But he was not required to breach the door for himself. It opened inward at Gibbon's word, admitting Covenant, Linden, and Cail to one of the greatest treasures of the old Lords.
To the Hall of Gifts.
After all these centuries, it was still intact. The air was tanged with smoke because the torches Gibbon had set for himself created light by destruction. And that kind of light could not do justice to the wonder of the high cavern. But everything Covenant saw was still intact.
The legacy of the Lords to a future which despised them.
The makers of Revelstone had wrought little in this spacious cave. They had given it a smooth floor, but had not touched the native stone of its walls, the rough columns which rose tremendously to support the ceiling and the rest of the Keep. Yet that lack of finish suited the purpose for which the Hall had been conceived. The rude surfaces everywhere displayed the best work of the finest artists and craftspeople of the ancient Land.
Tapestries and paintings behung the walls, defying the decay of centuries-preserved by some skill of the artists or quality of the Hall's atmosphere. Stands between the columns held large sculptures and carvings. Small pieces rested on wooden shelves cunningly attached to the stone. Many different fabrics were displayed; but all the other works were made of either wood or stone, the two fundamental materials which the Land had once revered. The Hall contained no metal of any description.
Covenant had not forgotten this place, never forgotten it; but he thought now that he had forgotten its pricelessness. It seemed to bring everything back to him in a rush, every treasured or abhorred memory: Lena and Atiaran, love and rape; Mhoram's hazardous and indefeasible compassion; the unscrupulous lore of ur-viles; Kevin in his despair; Ranyhyn as proud as wind; Ramen as stubborn as earth. And Giants, Giants on all sides. Giants wondrously depicted with their fealty and grief and grandeur wreathed about them as if the tapestries and stone-works and carvings were numinous with eternity. Here the people of the Land had shown what they could do when they were given peace.
And it was here, in this place of destructible beauty and heritage, that Gibbon-Raver had chosen to challenge Covenant for the survival of the Earth.
The Banefire Moving unconsciously inward, as if he were blind to the brink of madness gaping at his feet, Covenant went to meet the na-Mhoram.
Stark in his black robe and scarlet chasuble, with his iron crozier held ready and his red eyes bright, Gibbon stood on a mosaic which swirled through the centre of the floor Covenant had not seen that mosaic before; it must have been set at a later time. It was formed of small stone chips the colour of aliantha and agony; and it portrayed Kevin Landwaster at the Ritual of Desecration. Unlike most of the works around it, it conveyed no sense of underlying affirmation. Instead, it expressed Kevin's lurid and extreme pain as if that were a source of satisfaction.
Gibbon had taken his position over the Landwaster's heart.
At the edge of the mosaic, Honninscrave knelt in the stone.
Covenant's entrance into the Hall of Gifts did not make the Giant look up, though his head was the only part of himself he c
ould have moved. By some cunning of Gibbon-Raver's power, Honninscrave had been fused into the floor. Kneeling, he had sunk into it to the middle of his thighs and forearms as though it were quicksand. Then it had solidified around him, imprisoning him absolutely.
His eyes stared in despair at the failure of his life. Loss scarred his face with memories of Seadreamer and Starfare's Gem.
And the na-Mhoram laughed.
“See you, Unbeliever?” His voice was crimson and eager. “No Unbelief will redeem you now. I will spare you only if you grovel.”
In response, Cail sprang past Covenant toward Gibbon as if he thought he could shatter the Raver.
But Gibbon was ready. His fist tightened on his crozier; fire spread from the open triangle at its tip.
An involuntary scream tore through Honninscrave.
Cail leaped to a halt, stood almost trembling a few feet from the na-Mhoram.
“I know you, Haruchai,” the Raver breathed softly, savagely. “The groveller you serve will not assail me-he values the relics of his dead past and fears to harm them. He values the lost Earth. But you have not the folly of that scruple. Yet you remain a fool. You will not require me to crush the life of this mad Giant who sought to confront me, deeming me as paltry as himself.”
Cail turned on his heel, strode back to Covenant's side. His visage held no expression. But sweat beaded on his temples, and the muscles at the corners of his eyes squeezed and released like the labour of his heart.
Linden tried to curse, but the words came out like wincing. Instinctively, she had placed herself half behind Covenant.
“Hear you?” Gibbon went on, raising his voice so that it contaminated every comer of the great Hall. “You are all fools, and you will not lift finger or flame against me. You will do naught but grovel at my whim or die. You are beaten, Unbeliever. You fear to destroy that which you love. Your love is cowardice, and you are beaten.”
Covenant's throat closed as if he were choking on smoke.
“And you. Linden Avery.” The na-Mhoram's raw contempt filled the air. “Knowing my touch, you have yet dared me again. And this you name victory to yourself, thinking that such folly expiates your rooted evil. You conceive that we have misesteemed you, that you have put aside Despite. But your belief is anile. You have not yet tasted the depths of your Desecration.
“Hear you all?” he cried suddenly, exalted by malice. “You are damned beyond description, and I will feast upon your souls.”
Torn between outrage and visceral horror, Linden made whimpering noises between her teeth. She had come this far because she loved Covenant and loathed evil; but Gibbon appalled her in every nerve and fiber of her being. Her face was as pale as a gravestone; her eyes stared like wounds Covenant had gone numb to everything else; but he was still aware of her. He knew what was happening to her. She was being ripped apart by her desire for the power to crush Gibbon-to extirpate him as if he were the part of herself she most hated.
If she did that, if she took hold of Covenant's fire and wielded it for herself, she would be lost. The inheritance of her parents would overcome her. Destroying Gibbon, she would shape herself in his image, affirm the blackness which had twisted her life.
That at least Covenant could spare her. And the moment had come. He was caught in the throes of a rupture so fundamental and puissant that it might tear Time asunder. If he did not act now, his control would be gone.
Deliberately, desperately, he started forward as if he did not realize that he had gone past the brink.
At once. Gibbon lifted his crozier higher, gripped it more tightly. His eyes spat red. “Bethink you. Unbeliever!” he snapped. “You know not what you do! Consider your hands.”
Involuntarily, Covenant looked down at them, at the krill-cuts across the insides of his fingers.
His severed flesh gaped, exposing bone. But the cuts were not bleeding. Instead, they oozed an essence of leprosy and venom. The very fluid in his veins had become corruption.
Yet he was prepared for this. His chosen path had brought him here. It was foretold by dreams. And he had already caused the shattering of Revelstone's gates, already brought immeasurable damage into the Keep. More harm would not alter his doom.
The scars on his forearm shone black fury. Like poison and flame, he strode onto the mosaic toward Gibbon.
“Fool!” the na-Mhoram cried. A grimace of fear betrayed his face. “You cannot oppose me! The Banefire surpasses you! And if it does not, I will possess your Linden Avery. Will you slay her also?” Covenant heard Gibbon. He understood the threat. But he did not stop.
Suddenly, the Raver sent a blast of fire toward Honninscrave; and Covenant erupted to protect the Master.
Erupted as if his heart could no longer contain the magma of his power.
Flame as dark and fathomless as an abyss shouted across the glittering surface of the mosaic, rebounded among the pillars, echoed off the high ceiling. Soulless force ripped Gibbon's blast from the air, scattered it in tatters, rose on and on with a deafening vehemence, trumpeting for the Raver's life. His hands lifted in front of him with the palms outward like an appeal for peace; but from his sliced fingers wild magic streamed, venomous and fatal. All his flesh had turned black; his bones were ebon and diseased. The only pure things about him were the stark circle of his ring and the quality of his passion.
The na-Mhoram retreated a step or two, held up his crozier with vermeil frenzy wailing from its triangle. Fire hot enough to incinerate stone crashed at Covenant. The concentrated ferocity of the Banefire seemed to scorch straight into his vitals. But he went forward through it.
That Gibbon had slaughtered the people of the Land to feed the Banefire and the Sunbane. That he had taught rites of bloodshed to those who survived, so that they slew each other in order to live. That he had filled Revelstone itself with such pollution. Blast and counter-blast, Honninscrave struggling uselessly again. Cad hauling Linden out of the terrible concussion of powers with screams in her eyes too acute for paralysis and precious artefacts falling like faggots. That he had torn the forehall with Grim-fire and had sent his innocent servants to compel their own butchery from the company. That he had so appalled Linden that she believed the legacy of her parents. That he had brought his violence here, requiring Covenant to spend the Land's treasured past as tinder.
Gibbon's crozier channelled so much might from the Banefire, so much force and rage, that Covenant nearly wept at the ruin it wrought, the price it exacted from him. Under his boots, the coloured pieces of the mosaic caught fire, became as brilliant and incandescent as prophecy. He trod an image of the Landwaster's heart as if that were where his own path led.
Erect and benighted in the core of his infernal power, he tried to advance on the na-Mhoram.
And failed.
Air and light ceased to exist. Every precious thing near his blaze burned away. The nearby columns began to melt:.
the floor of the Hall rippled on the verge of dissolution. More force than ever before in his life coursed from him and slammed at Gibbon. The essential fabric of the Earth's existence trembled as if the last wind had begun to blow.
Yet he failed.
Lord Foul had planned well, prepared well. Gibbon-Raver was cornered and could not flee, and so he did not falter. And the Banefire was too strong. Centuries of bloodshed had produced their intended fruit; and Gibbon fed it to Covenant, thrust it morsel by bitter morsel between his unwilling teeth. The Banefire was not stronger than he was; it was simply stronger than he dared to be. Strong enough to withstand any assault which did not also crumble the Arch of Time.
At the taste of that knowledge Covenant felt his death closing around him, and his despair grew wild. For a long moment with red fury blazing at him like the sun, he wanted to cry out, scream, howl so that the heavens would hear him, No! NO!
Hear him and fall.
But before the weaving of the world could tear, he found he knew that answer also. To bear what must be borne. After all, it was en
durable-if he chose to go that far, and the choice was not taken from him. Certainly it would be expensive. It would cost him everything. But was that not preferable to a Ritual of Desecration which would make Kevin's look like an act of petty spite? Was it not?
After a time, he said softly. Yes. And again, Yes. Accepting it fully for the first time. You are the wild magic. Yes.
With the last ragged fragments of his will, he pulled himself back from the brink of cataclysm. He could not quench the blackness-and if he did not quench it soon, it would kill him. The venom was eating away his life. But not yet. His face was stretched and mortal with unutterable pain; but he had accepted it. Turning away from Gibbon, he walked off the mosaic.
As he looked toward Linden and Call to beg their forgiveness, Nom burst into the Hall of Gifts with the First in fierce pursuit.
She wrenched to a halt when she saw the wreckage of the Hall, the extent of Covenant's desperation; then she went swiftly to join Cail and Linden. But the Sandgorgon shot toward the na-Mhoram as if the beast at last had located its perfect prey.
Flashing past Covenant, pounding across the mosaic, Nom crashed into the red heart of Gibbon's power.
And was catapulted away over Honninscrave's head like a flung child. Even a Sandgorgon was a small thing to pit against the force of the Banefire.
But Nom understood frustration and fury, effort and destruction. It did not understand fear or defeat. Surely the beast recognized the sheer transcendence of Gibbon's might. But Nom did not therefore desist or flee. Instead, it attacked in another way.
With both arms, it hit the floor so hard that the entire centre of the Hall bucked and spattered like a sheet of water.
The mosaic cracked across its face, lifted in pieces, fell apart.
Shrieking rage, Gibbon staggered to regain his balance, then cocked back his crozier to deliver a blast which would fry Nom's flesh from its bones.
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