The Power That Preserves t1cotc-3

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The One’s eyes widened at this. But Triock went on: “The message must be spoken now. I have been pursued. A blizzard will not prevent any eyes which could see the High Wood in my grasp.”

  “Yes,” the tall man said once more. “Very well-I will begin. Perhaps it will bring this intrusion to an end.”

  He turned as if dismissing Triock from his thoughts, and moved into the centre of his cave. Facing the entrance of the chamber, he gathered the Wraiths around him so that he was surrounded in light, and held the lomillialor rod up before his face with both hands. Quietly, he began to sing-a delicate, almost wordless melody that sounded strangely like a transposition, a rendering into human tones, of the Wraith song. As he sang, he closed his eyes, and his head tilted back until his forehead was raised toward the ceiling.

  “Mhoram,” he murmured through the pauses in his song, “Mhoram. Son of Variol and Tamarantha. Open your heart to hear me.”

  Triock stared at him, tense and entranced.

  “Tamarantha-son, open your heart. Mhoram.”

  Slowly, power began to gleam from the core of the smooth rod.

  The next.instant, Triock heard feet behind him. Something about them, something deadly and abominable, snatched his attention, spun him toward the entrance to the chamber.

  A voice as harsh as the breaking of stone grated, “Give it up. He cannot open his heart to you. He is caught in our power and will never open his heart again.”

  Yeurquin stood just within the cave, eyes exalted with madness.

  The sight stunned Triock. Yeurquin’s frozen apparel had been partially torn from him, and wherever his flesh was bare the skin hung in frostbitten tatters. The blizzard had clawed his face and hands to the bone. But no blood came from his wounds.

  He bore Quirrel in his arms. Her head dangled abjectly from her broken neck.

  When he saw Yeurquin, the Unfettered One recoiled as if he had been struck-reeled backward and staggered against the opposite wall of the cave, gaping in soundless horror.

  Together, the Wraiths fled, screaming.

  “Yeurquin.” The death and wrong which shone from the man made Triock gag. He croaked the name as if he were strangling on it. “Yeurquin?”

  Yeurquin laughed with a ragged, nauseating sound. In gleeful savagery, he dropped Quirrel to the floor and stepped past her. “We meet at last,” he rasped to Triock. ” I have laboured for this encounter. I think I will make you pay for that labour.”

  “Yeurquin?” Staggering where he stood, Triock could see that the man should have been dead; the storm damage he had suffered was too great for anyone to survive. But some force animated him, some ferocity that relished his death kept him moving. He was an incarnated nightmare.

  The next moment, the Unfettered One mastered his shock, rushed forward. Wielding the lomillialor before him like a weapon, he cried hoarsely, ” Turiya Raver! Tree foe! I know you-I have seen you. Melenkurion abatha! Leave this place. Your touch desecrates the very Earth.”

  Yeurquin winced under the flick of the potent words. But they did not daunt him. “Better dead feet like mine than idiocy like yours,” he smirked. “I think I will not leave this place until I have tasted your blood, Unfettered wastrel. You are so quick to give your life to nothing. Now you will give it to me.”

  The One did not flinch. “I will give you nothing but the lomillialor test of truth. Even you have cause to fear that, Turiya Raver. The High Wood will burn you to the core.”

  “Fool!” the Raver laughed. “You have lived here so long that you have forgotten the meaning of power!”

  Fearlessly, he started toward the two men.

  With a sharp cry, Triock threw off his stunned dismay. Sweeping his sword from its scabbard, he sprang at the Raver.

  Yeurquin knocked him effortlessly aside, sent him careening to smack his head against the wall. Then Turiya closed with the Unfettered One.

  Pain slammed through Triock, flooded his mind with blood. Gelid agony shrieked in his chest where the Raver had struck him. But for one moment, he resisted unconsciousness, lurched to his feet. In torment, he saw turiya and the Unfettered One fighting back and forth, both grasping the High Wood. Then the Raver howled triumphantly. Bolts of sick, red-green power shot up through the Unfettered One’s arms and shattered his chest.

  When Triock plunged into darkness, the Raver had already started to dismember his victim. He was laughing all the while.

  Eight: Winter

  WITH snow swirling around him like palpable mist, Thomas Covenant left Mithil Stonedown in the company of Saltheart Foamfollower and Lena daughter of Atiaran. The sensation of purpose ran high in him-he felt that all his complex rages had at last found an effective focus-and he strode impatiently northward along the snow-clogged road as if he were no longer conscious of his still-unhealed forehead and lip, or of the damaged condition of his feet, or of fatigue. He walked leaning ahead into the wind like a fanatic.

  But he was not well, could not pretend for any length of time that he was well. Snowflakes hurried around him like subtle grey chips of Lord Foul’s malice, seeking to drain the heat of his life. And he felt burdened by Lena. The mother of Elena his daughter stepped proudly at his side as if his companionship honoured her. Before he had travelled half a league toward the mouth of the valley, his knees were trembling, and his breath scraped unevenly past his sore lip. He was forced to stop and rest.

  Foamfollower and Lena regarded him gravely, concernedly. But his former resolution to accept help had deserted him; he was too angry to be carried like a child. He rejected with a grimace the tacit offer in Foamfollower’ s eyes.

  The Giant also was not well-his wounds gave him pain-and he appeared to understand the impulse behind Covenant’s refusal. Quietly, he asked, “My friend, do you know the way”-he hesitated as if he were searching for a short name-“the way to Ridjeck Thome, Foul’s Creche?”

  “I’m leaving that to you.”

  Foamfollower frowned. “I know the way-I have it graven in my heart past all forgetting. But if we are separated-“

  “I don’t have a chance if we’re separated,” Covenant muttered mordantly. He wished that he could leave the sound of leprosy out of his voice, but the malady was too rife in him to be stifled.

  “Separated? Who speaks of separation?” Lena protested before Foamfollower could reply. “Do not utter such things, Giant. We will not be separated. I have preserved-I will not part from him. You are old Giant. You do not remember the giving of life to life in love-or you would not speak of separation.”

  In some way, her words twisted the deep knife of Foamfollower’s hurt. “Old, yes.” Yet after a moment he forced a wry grin onto his lips. “And you are altogether too young for me, fair Lena.”

  Covenant winced for them both. Have mercy on me, he groaned. Have mercy. He started forward again, but almost at once he tripped on a snow-hidden roughness in the road.

  Lena and Foamfollower caught him from either side and upheld him.

  He looked back and forth between them. “Treasure-berries. I need aliantha.”

  Foamfollower nodded and moved away briskly, as if his Giantish instincts told him exactly where to find the nearest aliantha. But Lena retained her hold on Covenant’s arm. She had not pulled the hood of her robe over her head, and her white hair hung like wet snow. She was gazing into Covenant’s face as if she were famished for the sight of him.

  He endured her scrutiny as long as he could. Then he carefully removed his arm from her fingers and said, “If I’m going to survive this, I’ll have to learn to stand on my own.”

  “Why?” she asked. “All are eager to aid-and none more eager than I. You have suffered enough for your aloneness.”

  Because I’m all I have, he answered. But he could not say such a thing to her. He was terrified by her need for him.

  When he did not reply, she glanced down for a moment, away from the fever of his gaze, then looked up again with the brightness of an idea in her eyes. “Summon the Ranyhyn
.”

  The Ranyhyn?

  “They will come to you. They come to me at your command. It has hardly been forty days since they last came. They come each year on”- she faltered, looked around at the snow with a memory of fear in her face- “on the middle night of spring.” Her voice fell until Covenant could hardly hear her. “This year the winter cold in my heart would not go away. The Land forgot spring-forgot- Sunlight abandoned us. I feared-feared that the Ranyhyn would never come again-that all my dreams were folly.

  “But the stallion came. Sweat and snow froze in his coat, and ice hung from his muzzle. His breath steamed as he asked me to mount him. But I thanked him from the bottom of my heart and sent him home. He brought back such thoughts of you that I could not ride.”

  Her eyes had left his face, and now she fell silent as if she had forgotten why she was speaking. But when she raised her head, Covenant saw that her old face was full of tears. “Oh, my dear one,” she said softly, “you are weak and in pain. Summon the Ranyhyn and ride them as you deserve.”

  “No, Lena.” He could not accept the kind of help the Ranyhyn would give him. He reached out and awkwardly brushed at her tears. His fingers felt nothing. “I made a bad bargain with them. I’ve made nothing but bad bargains.”

  “Bad?” she asked as if he amazed her. “You are Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. How could any doing of yours be bad?”

  Because it let me commit crimes.

  But he could not say that aloud either. He reacted instead as if she had struck the touchstone of his fury.

  ”Listen, I don’t know who you think I am these days; maybe you’ve still got Berek Halfhand on the brain. But I’m not him-I’m not any kind of hero. I’m nothing but a broken-down leper, and I’m doing this because I’ve had it up to here with being pushed around. With or without your company I’m going to start getting even regardless of any misbegotten whatever that tries to get in my way. I’m going to do it my own way. If you don’t want to walk, you can go home.”

  Before she had a chance to respond, he turned away from her in shame, and found Foamfollower standing sadly beside him. “And that’s another thing,” he went on almost without pause. “I have also had it with your confounded misery. Either tell me the truth about what’s happened to you or stop snivelling.” He emphasized his last two words by grabbing treasure-berries from the Giant’s open hands. “Hell and blood! I’m sick to death of this whole thing.” Glaring up at the Giant’s face, he jammed aliantha into his mouth, chewed them with an air of helpless belligerence.

  “Ah, my friend,” Foamfollower breathed. “This way that you have found for yourself is a cataract. I have felt it in myself. It will bear you to the edge in a rush and hurl you into abysses from which there is no recovery.”

  Lena’s hands touched Covenant’s arm again, but he threw them off. He could not face her. Still glaring at Foamfollower, he said, “You haven’t told me the truth.” Then he turned and stalked away through the snow. In his rage, he could not forgive himself for being so unable to distinguish between hate and grief.

  Treasure-berries supplied by both Foamfollower and Lena kept him going through most of the afternoon. But his pace remained slow and ragged. Finally his strength gave out when Foamfollower guided him off the road and eastward into the foothills beyond the mouth of the valley. By then, he was too exhausted to worry about the fact that the snowfall was ending. He simply lumbered into the lee of a hill and lay down to sleep. Later, in half-conscious moments, he discovered that the Giant was carrying him, but he was too tired to care.

  He awoke sometime after dawn with a pleasant sensation of warmth on his face and a smell of cooking in his nostrils. When he opened his eyes, he saw Foamfollower crouched over a graveling pot a few feet away, preparing a meal. They were in a small ravine. The leaden skies clamped over them like a coffin lid, but the air was free of snow. Beside him, Lena lay deep in weary slumber.

  Softly, Foamfollower said, “She is no longer young. And we walked until near dawn. Let her sleep.” With a short gesture around the ravine, he went on: “We will not be easily discovered here. We should remain until nightfall. It is better for us to travel at night.” He smiled faintly. “More rest will not harm you.”

  “I don’t want to rest,” Covenant muttered, though he felt dull with fatigue. “I want to keep moving.”

  “Rest,” Foamfollower commanded. “You will be able to travel more swiftly when your health has improved.”

  Covenant acquiesced involuntarily. He lacked the energy to argue. While he waited for the meal, he inspected himself. Inwardly, he felt steadier; some of his self-possession had returned. The swelling of his lip had receded, and his forehead no longer seemed feverish. The infection in his battered feet did not appear to be spreading.

  But his hands and feet were as numb as if they were being gradually gnawed off his limbs by frostbite. The backs of his knuckles and the tops of his arches retained some sensitivity, but the essential deadness was anchored in his bones. At first he tried to believe that the cause actually was frostbite. But he knew better. His sight told him clearly that it was not ice which deadened him.

  His leprosy was spreading. Under Lord Foul’s dominion-under the grey malignant winter-the Land no longer had the power to give him health.

  Dream health! He knew that it had always been a lie, that leprosy was incurable because dead nerves could not be regenerated, that the previous impossible aliveness of his fingers and toes was the one incontrovertible proof that the Land was a dream, a delusion. Yet the absence of that health staggered him, dismayed the secret, yearning recusancy of his immedicable flesh. Not anymore, he gaped dumbly. Now he had been bereft of that, too. The cruelty of it seemed to be more than he could bear.

  “Covenant?” Foamfollower asked anxiously. “My friend?” Covenant gaped at the Giant as well, and another realization shook him. Foamfollower was closed to him. Except for the restless grief which crouched behind the Giant’s eyes, Covenant could see nothing of his inner condition, could not see whether his companion was well or ill, right or wrong. His Land-born sight or penetration had been truncated, crippled. He might as well have been back in his own blind, impervious, superficial world.

  “Covenant?” Foamfollower repeated.

  For a time, the fact surpassed Covenant’s comprehension. He tested-yes, he could see the interminable corruption eating its ill way toward his wrists, toward his heart. He could smell the potential gangrene in his feet. He could feel the vestiges of poison in his lip, the residual fever in his forehead. He could see hints of Lena’s age, Foamfollower’s sorrow. He could taste the malevolence which hurled this winter across the Land-that he could perceive without question. And he had surely seen the ill in the marauders at Mithil Stonedown.

  But that was no feat; their wrong was written on them so legibly that even a child could read it. Everything else was essentially closed to him. He could not discern Foamfollower’s spirit, or Lena’s confusion, or the snow’s falseness. The stubbornness which should have been apparent in the rocky hillsides above him was invisible. Even this rare gift which the Land had twice given him was half denied him now.

  “Foamfollower.” He could hardly refrain from moaning. “It’s not coming back. I can’t-this winter-it’s not coming back.”

  “Softly, my friend. I hear you. I”-a wry smile bent his lips-“I have seen what effect this winter has upon you. Perhaps I should be grateful that you cannot behold its effect upon me.”

  “What effect?” Covenant croaked.

  Foamfollower shrugged as if to deprecate his own plight. “At times-when I have been too long unsheltered in this wind-I find I cannot remember certain precious Giantish tales. My friend, Giants do not forget stories.”

  “Hell and blood.” Covenant’s voice shook convulsively. But he neither cried out nor moved from his blankets. “Get that food ready,” he juddered. “I’ve got to eat.” He needed food for strength. His purpose required strength.

  There was
no question in him about what he meant to do. He was shackled to it as if his leprosy were an iron harness. And the hands that held the reins were in Foul’s Creche.

  The stew which Foamfollower handed to him he ate severely, tremorously. Then he lay back in his blankets as if he were stretching himself on a slab, and coerced himself to rest, to remain still and conserve his energy. When the warm stew, and the long debt of recuperation he owed to himself, sent him drifting toward slumber, he fell asleep still glowering thunderously at the bleak, grey, cloud-locked sky.

  He awoke again toward noon and found Lena yet asleep. But she was nestling against him now, smiling faintly at her dreams. Foamfollower was no longer nearby.

  Covenant glanced around and located the Giant keeping watch up near the head of the ravine. He waved when Covenant looked toward him. Covenant responded by carefully extricating himself from Lena, climbing out of his blankets. He tied his sandals securely onto his numb feet, tightened his jacket, and went to join the Giant.

  From Foamfollower’s position, he found that he could see over the rims of the ravine into its natural approaches. After a moment, he asked quietly, “How far did we get?” His breath steamed as if his mouth were full of smoke.

  “We have rounded the northmost point of this promontory,” Foamfollower replied. Nodding back over his left shoulder, he continued, “Kevin’s Watch is behind us. Through these hills we can gain the Plains of Ra in three more nights.”

  “We should get going,” muttered Covenant. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Practice patience, my friend. We will gain nothing if we hasten into the arms of marauders.”

  Covenant looked around, then asked, “Are the Ramen letting marauders get this close to the Ranyhyn? Has something happened to them?”

  “Perhaps. I have had no contact with them. But the Plains are threatened along the whole length of the Roamsedge and Landrider rivers. And the Ramen spend themselves extravagantly to preserve the great horses. Perhaps their numbers are too few for them to ward these hills.”