The Power That Preserves t1cotc-3

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  He saw the protest in her eyes and hastened to answer her. He did not want to hear her thought uttered aloud. “Further, I tell you that there is no blame for us in the wisdom or folly, victory or defeat, of the way we have elected to defend the Land. We are not the Creators of the Earth. Its final end is not on our heads. We are creations, like the Land itself. We are accountable for nothing but the purity of our service. When we have given our best wisdom and our utterest strength to the defence of the Land, then no voice can raise accusation against us. Life or death, good or ill-victory or destruction-we are not required to solve these riddles. Let the Creator answer for the doom of his creation.”

  Amatin stared at him hotly, and he could feel her probing the estranged, secret place in his heart. Speaking barely above a whisper, she said, “Do you blame Callindrill then? There is no ‘best wisdom’ in his death.”

  The misdirection of her effort to understand him pained the High Lord, but he answered her openly. “You are not deaf to me, Lord Amatin, I loved Callindrill Faer-mate like a brother. I have no wisdom or strength or willingness to blame him.”

  “You are the High Lord. What does your wisdom teach you?”

  “I am the High Lord,” Mhoram affirmed simply. “I have no time for blame.”

  Abruptly, Loerya joined the probing. “And if there is no Creator? Or if the creation is untended?”

  “Then who is there to reproach us? We provide the meaning of our own lives. If we serve the Land purely to the furthest limit of our abilities, what more can we ask of ourselves?”

  Trevor answered, “Victory, High Lord. If we fail, the Land itself reproaches us. It will be made waste. We are its last preservers.”

  The force of this thrust smote Mhoram. He found that he still lacked the courage to retort nakedly, Better failure than desecration. Instead, he turned the thrust with a wry smile and said, “The last, Lord Trevor? No. The Haruchai yet live within their mountain fastness. In their way, they know the name of the Earthpower more surely than any Lord. Ramen and Ranyhyn yet live. Many people of the South and North Plains yet live. Many of the Unfettered yet live. Caerroil Wildwood, Forestal of Garroting Deep, has not passed away. And somewhere beyond the Sunbirth Sea is the homeland of the Giants-yes, and of the Elohim and Bhrathair, of whom the Giants sang. They will resist Lord Foul’s hold upon the Earth.”

  “But the Land, High Lord! The Land will be lost! The despiser will wrack it from end to end.”

  At once, Mhoram breathed intensely, “By the Seven! Not while one flicker of love or faith remains alive!”

  His eyes burned into Trevor’s until the Lord’s protest receded. Then he turned to Loerya. But in her he could see the discomfortable fear for her daughters at work, and he refrained from touching her torn feelings. Instead, he looked toward Amatin and was relieved to see that much of her anger had fallen away. She regarded him with an expression of hope. She had found something in him that she needed. Softly, she said, “High Lord, you have discovered a way in which we may act against this doom.”

  The High Lord tightened his hold upon himself. “There is a way.” Raising his head, he addressed all the people in the Close. “My friends, Satansfist Raver has burned Revelwood. Trothgard is now in his hands. Soon he will begin to march upon us. Scant days remain before the siege of Revelstone begins. We can no longer delay.” The gold in his eyes flared as he said, “We must attempt to summon the Unbeliever.”

  At this, a stark silence filled the Close. Mhoram could feel waves of surprise and excitement and dread pouring down on him from the galleries. Warmark Quaan’s passionate objection struck across his shoulders. But he waited in the silence until Lord Loerya found her voice to say, “That is impossible. The Staff of Law has been lost. We have no means for such a summoning.” The soft timbre of her voice barely covered its hard core.

  Still Mhoram waited, looking toward the other Lords for answers to Loerya’s claim. After a long moment, Trevor said hesitantly, “But the Law of Death has been broken.”

  “And if the Staff has been destroyed,” Amatin added quickly, “then the Earthpower which it held and focused has been released upon the Land. Perhaps it is accessible to us.”

  “And we must make the attempt,” said Mhoram. “For good or ill, the Unbeliever is inextricably linked to the Land’s doom. If he is not here, he cannot defend the Land.”

  “Or destroy it!” Quaan rasped.

  Before Mhoram could respond, Hearthrall Borillar was on his feet. He said in a rush, “The Unbeliever will save the Land.”

  Quaan growled, “This is odd confidence, Hearthrall.”

  “He will save,” Borillar said as if he were surprised at his own temerity. Seven years ago, when he had met Covenant, he had been the youngest Hirebrand ever to take the office of Hearthrall. He had been acutely aware of his inexperience, and he was still deferential-a fact which amused his friend and fellow Hearthrall, Tohrm. “When I met the Unbeliever, I was young and timid-afraid.” Tohrm grinned impishly at the implication that Borillar was no longer young and timid. “ur-lord Covenant spoke kindly to me.”

  He sat down again, blushing in embarrassment. But no one except Tohrm smiled, and Tohrm’s smile was always irrepressible. It expressed only amused fondness, not mockery. The pitch of Borillar’s conviction seemed to reproach the doubts in the Close. When Lord Loerya spoke again, her tone had changed. With a searching look at the young Hearthrall, she said, “How shall we make this attempt?”

  Mhoram gravely nodded his thanks to Borillar, then turned back to the Lords. “I will essay the summoning. If my strength fails, aid me.” The Lords nodded mutely. With a final look around the Close, he sat down, bowed his head, and opened his mind to the melding of the Lords.

  He did so, knowing that he would have to hold back part of himself, prevent Trevor and Loerya and Amatin from seeing into his secret. He was taking a great risk. He needed the consolation, the sharing of strength and support, which a complete mind melding could give; yet any private weakness might expose the knowledge he withheld. And in the melding his fellow Lords could see that he did withhold something. Therefore it was an expensive rite. Each meld drained him because he could only protect his secret by giving fortitude rather than receiving it. But he believed in the meld. Of all the lore of the new Lords, only this belonged solely to them; the rest had come to them through the Wards of Kevin Landwaster. And when it was practiced purely, melding brought the health and heart of any Lord to the aid of all the others.

  As long as the High Lord possessed any pulse of life or thew of strength, he could not refuse to share them.

  At last, the contact was broken. For a moment, Mhoram felt that he was hardly strong enough to stand; the needs of the other Lords, and their concern for him, remained on his shoulders like an unnatural burden. But he understood himself well enough to know that in some ways he did not have the ability to surrender. Instead, he had an instinct for absolute exertions which frightened him whenever he thought of the Ritual of Desecration. After a momentary rest, he rose to his feet and took up his staff. Bearing it like a standard, he walked around the table to the stairs and started down toward the open floor around the graveling pit.

  As Mhoram reached the floor, Tohrm came down out of the gallery to join him. The Gravelingas’s eyes were bright with humour, and he grinned as he said, “You will need far sight to behold the Unbeliever.” Then he winked as if this were a jest. “The gulf between worlds is dark, and darkness withers the heart. I will provide more light.”

  The High Lord smiled his thanks, and the Hearthrall stepped briskly to one side of the graveling pit. He bent toward the fire-stones, and at once seemed to forget the other people in the Close. Without another look at his audience, he softly began to sing.

  In a low rocky language known only to those who shared the rhadhamaerl lore, he hymned an invocation to the fire-stones, encouraging them, stoking them, calling to life their latent power. And the red-gold glow of the graveling reflected like a response f
rom his face. After a moment, Mhoram could see the brightness growing. The reddish hue faded from the gold; the gold turned purer, whiter, hotter; and the new-earth aroma of the graveling rose up like incense in the Close.

  In silence, the three Lords stood, and the rest of the people joined them in a mute expression of respect for the rhadhamaerl and the Earthpower. Before them, the radiance of the pit mounted until Tohrm himself was pale in the light.

  With a slow, stately movement, High Lord Mhoram lifted his staff, held it in both hands level with his forehead.

  The summoning song of the Unbeliever began to run in his mind as he focused his thoughts on the power of his staff. One by one, he eliminated the people in the Close, and then the Close itself, from his awareness. He poured himself into the straight, smooth wood of his staff until he was conscious of nothing but the song and the light-and the illimitable implications of the Earthpower beating like ichor in the immense mountain-stone around him. Then he gathered as many strands of the pulse as he could hold together in the hands of his staff, and rode them outward through the warp and weft of Revelstone’s existence. And as he rode, he sang to himself:

  There is wild magic graven in every rock,

  contained for white gold to unleash or control-

  gold, rare metal, not born of the Land,

  nor ruled, limited, subdued

  by the Law with which the Land was created-

  but keystone rather, pivot, crux

  for the anarchy out of which Time was made.

  The strands carried him out through the malevolent wind, so that his spirit shivered against gusts of spite; but his consciousness passed beyond them swiftly, passed beyond all air and wood and water and stone until he seemed to be spinning through the quintessential fabric of which actuality was made. For an interval without dimension in time and space, he lost track of himself. He felt that he was floating beyond the limits of creation. But the song and the light held him, steadied him. Soon his thoughts pointed like a compass to the lodestone of the white gold.

  Then he caught a glimpse of Thomas Covenant’s ring. It was unmistakable; the Unbeliever’s presence covered the chaste circlet like an aura, bound it, sealed up its power. And the aura itself ached with anguish.

  High Lord Mhoram reached toward that presence and began to sing:

  Be true, Unbeliever -

  Answer the call.

  Life is the Giver:

  Death ends all.

  The promise is truth,

  And banes disperse

  With promise kept:

  But soul’s deep curse

  On broken faith

  And faithless thrall,

  For doom of darkness

  Covers all.

  Be true, Unbeliever-

  Answer the call.

  Be true.

  He caught hold of Covenant with his song and started back toward the Close.

  The efficacy of the song took much of the burden from him, left him free to return swiftly to himself. As he opened his eyes to the dazzling light, he almost fell to his knees. Sudden exhaustion washed over him; he felt severely attenuated, as if his soul had been stretched to cover too great a distance. For a time, he stood strengthless, even forgetting to sing. But the other Lords had taken up the song for him, and in the place of his power their staffs vitalized the summoning.

  When his eyes regained their sight, he beheld Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder, standing half substantial in the light before him.

  But the apparition came no closer, did not incarnate itself. Covenant remained on the verge of physical presence; he refused to cross over. In a voice that barely existed, he cried, “Not now! Let me go!”

  The sight of the Unbeliever’s suffering shocked Mhoram. Covenant was starving, he desperately needed rest, he had a deep and seriously untended wound on his forehead. His whole body was bruised and battered as if he had been stoned, and one side of his mouth was caked with ugly blood. But as bad as his physical injuries were, they paled beside his psychic distress. Appalled resistance oozed from him like the sweat of pain, and a fierce fire of will held him unincarnate. As he fought the completion of his summoning, he reminded Mhoram forcibly of dukkha, the poor Waynhim upon which Lord Foul had practiced so many torments with the Illearth Stone. He resisted as if the Lords were coercing him into a vat of acid and virulent horror.

  “Covenant!” Mhoram groaned. “Oh, Covenant.” In his fatigue, he feared that he would not be able to hold back his weeping. “You are in hell. Your world is a hell.”

  Covenant flinched. The High Lord’s voice seemed to buffet him physically. But an instant later he demanded again, “Send me back! She needs me!”

  “We need you also,” murmured Mhoram. He felt frail, sinewless, as if he lacked the thews and ligaments to keep himself erect. He understood now why he had been able to summon Covenant without the Staff of Law, and that understanding was like a hole of grief knocked in the side of his being. He seemed to feel himself spilling away.

  “She needs me!” Covenant repeated. The effort of speech made blood trickle from his mouth. “Mhoram, can’t you hear me?”

  That appeal touched something in Mhoram. He was the High Lord; he could not, must not, fall short of the demands placed upon him. He forced himself to meet Covenant’s feverish gaze.

  “I hear you, Unbeliever,” he said. His voice became stronger as he spoke. “I am Mhoram son of Variol, High Lord by the choice of the Council. We need you also. I have summoned you to help us face the Land’s last need. The prophecy which Lord Foul the Despiser gave you to pronounce upon the Land has come to pass. If we fall, he will have the command of life and death in his hand, and the universe will be a hell forever. ur-lord Covenant, help us! It is I, Mhoram son of Variol, who beseech you.”

  The words struck Covenant in flurries. He staggered and quailed under the sound of Mhoram’s voice. But his aghast resistance did not falter. When he regained his balance, he shouted again, “She needs me, I tell you! That rattlesnake is going to bite her! If you take me now, I can’t help her,”

  In the back of his mind, Mhoram marvelled that Covenant could so grimly deny the summoning without employing the power of his ring. Yet that capacity for refusal accorded with Mhoram’s secret knowledge. Hope and fear struggled in the High Lord, and he had difficulty keeping his voice steady.

  “Covenant-my friend-please hear me. Hear the Land’s need in my voice. We cannot hold you. You have the white gold-you have the power to refuse us. The Law of Death does not bind you. Please hear me. I will not require much time. After I have spoken, if you still choose to depart-I will recant the summoning. I will-I will tell you how to make use of your white gold to deny us.”

  Again, Covenant recoiled from the assault of sound. But when he had recovered, he did not repeat his demand. Instead, he said harshly, “Talk fast. This is my only chance-the only chance to get out of a delusion is at the beginning. I’ve got to help her.”

  High Lord Mhoram clenched himself, mustered all his love and fear for the Land, put it into his voice. ”ur-lord, seven years have passed since we stood together on Gallows Howe. In that time we have recovered from some of our losses. But since-since the Staff of Law was lost-the Despiser has been much more free. He has built a new army as vast as the sea, and has marched against us. Already he has destroyed Revelwood. Satansfist Raver has burned Revelwood and slain Lord Callindrill. In a very few days, the siege of Lord’s Keep will begin.

  “But that does not complete the tale of our trouble. Seven years ago, we might have held Revelstone against any foe for seasons together. Even without the Staff of Law, we might have defended ourselves well. But-my friend, hear me-we have lost the Bloodguard.”

  Covenant cowered as if he were being pounded by a rockfall, but Mhoram did not stop. “When Korik of the Bloodguard led his mission to the Giants of Seareach, great evils claimed the lives of the Lords Hyrim and Shetra. Without them-” Mhoram hesitated. He remembered Covenant’s fri
endship with the Giant, Saltheart Foamfollower. He could not bear to torment Covenant by telling him of the Giants’ bloody fate. “Without them to advise him, Korik and two comrades captured a fragment of the Illearth Stone. He did not recognize his danger. The three Bloodguard bore the fragment with them, thinking to carry it to Lord’s Keep.

  “But the Illearth Stone is a terrible wrong in the Land. The three Bloodguard were not forewarned-and the Stone enslaved them. Under its power, they bore their fragment to Foul’s Creche. They believed that they would fight the Despiser. But he made them his own.” Again, Mhoram forbore to tell the whole story. He could not say to Covenant that the Bloodguard Vow had been subtly betrayed by the breaking of the Law of Death-or that the fine metal of the Bloodguard rectitude had been crucially tarnished when Covenant had forced Banner to reveal the name of the Power of Command. “Then he”-Mhoram still winced whenever he remembered what had happened-“he sent the three to attack Revelstone. Korik, Sill, and Doar marched here with green fire in their eyes and Corruption in their hearts. They killed many farmers and warriors before we comprehended what had been done to them.

  “Then First Mark Banner and Terrel and Runnik of the Bloodguard went to do battle with the three. They slew Korik and Sill and Doar their comrades, and brought their bodies to the Keep. In that way, we found”- Mhoram swallowed thickly-“we found that Lord Foul had cut off the last two fingers from the right hand of each of the three.”

  Covenant cried out in pain, but Mhoram drove his point home hoarsely. “He damaged each Bloodguard to resemble you.”

  “Stop!” Covenant groaned. “Stop. I can’t stand it.”

  Still the High Lord continued. “When First Mark Banner saw how Korik and his comrades had been corrupted despite their Vow, he and all the Bloodguard abandoned their service. They returned to the mountain home of the Haruchai. He said that they had been conquered by Corruption, and could no longer serve any Vow.