The Power That Preserves t1cotc-3

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Foamfollower”-he framed his inquiry as carefully as he could- “it’s none of my business. But Pietten said some terrible things about you. Or he meant them to be terrible. He said-” But he could not say the words. No matter how he uttered them, they would sound like an accusation.

  The Giant sighed, and his whole frame sagged. He studied his intertwined hands as if somewhere in their clasped gentleness and butchery were a secret he could not unclose, but he no longer evaded the question. “He said that I betrayed my kinfolk-that the Giants of Seareach died to the last child at the hands of turiya Raver because I abandoned them. It is true.”

  Foamfollower! Covenant moaned. My friend! Sorrow welled up in him, almost made him weep again.

  Abstractedly, Bannor said, “Many things were lost in The Grieve that day.”

  ” Yes.” Foamfollower blinked as if he were trying to hold back tears, but his eyes were dry, as parched as a wilderland. “Yes-many things. Among them I was the least.

  “Ah, Covenant, how can I tell you of it? This tongue has no words long enough for the tale. No word can encompass the love for a lost homeland, or the anguish of diminishing seed, or the pride-the pride in fidelity-That fidelity was our only reply to our extinction. We could not have borne our decline if we had not taken pride.

  “So my people-the Giants-I also, in my own way-the Giants were filled with horror-with abhorrence so deep that it numbed the very marrow of their bones-when they saw their pride riven-torn from them like rotten sails in the wind. They foundered at the sight. They saw the portent of their hope of Home-the three brothers-changed from fidelity to the most potent ill by one small stroke of the Despiser’s evil. Who in the Land could hope to stand against a Giant-Raver? Thus the Unhomed became the means to destroy that to which they had held themselves true. And in horror at the naught of their fidelity, their folly practiced through long centuries of pride, they were transfixed. Their revulsion left no room in them for thought or resistance or choice. Rather than behold the cost of their failure-rather than risk the chance that more of them would be made Soulcrusher’s servants-they- they elected to be slain.

  “I also-in my way, I was horrified as well. But I had already seen what they had not, until that moment. I had seen myself become what I hated. Alone of all my kindred, I was not surprised. It was not the vision of a Giant-Raver which horrified me. It was my-my own people.

  “Ah! Stone and Sea! They appalled me. I stormed at them-I ran through The Grieve like a dark sea of madness, howling at their abandonment, raging to strike one spark of resistance in the drenched tinder of their hearts. But they-they put away their tools, and banked their fires, and made ready their homes as if in preparation for departure- ” Abruptly, his suppressed passion broke into a cry. “My people! I could not bear it! I fled them with abjection crowding at my heart-fled them lest I, too, should fall into their dismay. Therefore they were slain. I who might have fought the Raver deserted them in the deepest blackness of their need.” Unable to contain himself any longer, he heaved to his feet. His raw, scourged voice rasped thickly in his throat. “I am unclean. I must-wash.”

  Holding himself stiffly upright, he turned and lumbered away toward the river.

  The helplessness of Covenant’s pain came out as anger. His own voice shook as he muttered to Banner, “If you say one word to blame him, I swear-“

  Then he stopped himself. He had accused Bannor unjustly too often in the past; the Bloodguard had long ago earned better treatment than this from him. But Bannor only shrugged. “I am a Haruchai, ” he said. “We also are not immune. Corruption wears many faces. Blame is a more enticing face than others, but it is none the less a mask for the Despiser.”

  His speech made Covenant look at him closely. Something came up between them that had never been laid to rest, neither on Gallows Howe nor in the Ramen covert. It wore the aspect of habitual Bloodguard distrust, but as he met Banner’s eyes, Covenant sensed that the issue was a larger one.

  Without inflection, Bannor went on: “Hate and vengeance are also masks.”

  Covenant was struck by how much the Bloodguard had aged. His mortality had accelerated. His hair was the same silver as his eyebrows; his skin had a sere appearance, as if it had started to wither; and his wrinkles looked oddly fatal, like gullies of death in his countenance. Yet his steady dispassion seemed as complete as ever. He did not look like a man who had deserted his sworn loyalty to the Lords.

  “Ur-Lord,” he said evenly, “what will you do?”

  “Do?” Covenant did his best to match the Bloodguard, though he could not look at Banner’s aging without remorse. “I still have work to do. I’ve got to go to Foul’s Creche.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I’ve got to stop him.”

  “High Lord Elena also strove to stop him. You have seen the outcome.”

  “Yes.” Covenant did full justice to Banner’s statement. But he did not falter. “I’ve got to find a better answer than she did.”

  “Do you make this choice out of hate?”

  He met the question squarely. “I don’t know.”

  “Then why do you go?”

  “Because I must.” That must carried the weight of an irrefusable necessity. The escape he had envisioned when he had left Morinmoss did not suffice. The Land’s need held him like a harness. “I’ve done so many things wrong. I’ve got to try to make them right.”

  Bannor considered this for a moment, then asked bluntly, “Do you know then how to make use of the wild magic?”

  “No,” Covenant answered. “Yes.” He hesitated, not because he doubted his reply, but because he was reluctant to say it aloud. But his sense of what was unresolved between him and Bannor had become clearer; something more than distrust was at stake. “I don’t know how to call it up, do anything with it. But I know how to trigger it.” He remembered vividly how Bannor had compelled him to help High Lord Prothall summon the Fire-Lions of Mount Thunder. “If I can get to the Illearth Stone-I can do something.”

  The Bloodguard’s voice was hard. “The Stone corrupts.”

  “I know.” He understood Banner’s point vividly. “I know. That’s why I have to get to it. That’s what this is all about-everything. That’s why Foul has been manipulating me. That’s why Elena-why Elena did what she did. That’s why Mhoram trusted me.”

  Bannor did not relent. “Will it be another Desecration?”

  Covenant had to steady himself before he could reply. “I hope not. I don’t want it to be.”

  In answer, the Bloodguard got to his feet. Looking soberly down at the Unbeliever, he said, “Ur-Lord Covenant, I will not accompany you for this purpose.”

  “Not?” Covenant protested. In the back of his mind, he had been counting on Banner’s companionship.

  “No. I no longer serve Lords.”

  More harshly than he intended, Covenant rasped, “So you’ve decided to turn your back?”

  “No.” Bannor denied the charge flatly. “What help I can, I will give. All the Bloodguard knowledge of the Spoiled Plains, of Kurash Qwellinir and Hotash Slay, I will share with you. But Ridjeck Thome, Corruption’s seat-there I will not go. The deepest wish of the Bloodguard was to fight the Despiser in his home, pure service against Corruption. This desire misled. I have put aside such things. My proper place now is with the Ranyhyn and their Ramen, in the exile of the mountains.”

  Covenant seemed to hear an anguish behind the inflectionless tone of the speech-an anguish that hurt him in the same way that this man always hurt him. “Ah, Bannor,” he sighed. “Are you so ashamed of what you were?”

  Bannor cocked a white eyebrow at the question, as if it came close to the truth. “I am not shamed,” he said distinctly. “But I am saddened that so many centuries were required to teach us the limits of our worth. We went too far, in pride and folly. Mortal men should not give up wives and sleep and death for any service — lest the face of failure become too abhorrent to be endured.” He paused almost as if
he were hesitating, then concluded, “Have you forgotten that High Lord Elena carved our faces as one in her last marrowmeld work?”

  “No.” Bannor had moved him. His response was both an assertion and a promise. “I will never forget.”

  Bannor nodded slowly. Then he said, “I, too, must wash,” and strode away toward the river without a backward glance.

  Covenant watched him go for a moment, then leaned his head back against the warmth of the Colossus and closed his sore eyes. He knew that he should not delay his departure any longer, that he increased his risks every moment he remained where he was. Lord Foul was certain to know what had happened; he would feel the sudden destruction of the Staff, and would search until he found the explanation, perhaps by compelling Elena once more out of her death to answer his questions. Then preparations would be made against the Unbeliever; Foul’s Creche would be defended; hunting parties would be sent out. Any delay might mean defeat.

  But Covenant was not ready. He still had one more confession to make-the last and hardest thing he would have to tell his friends. So he sat absorbing the heat of the Colossus like sustenance while he waited for Bannor and Foamfollower to return. He did not want to carry the weight of any more dishonesty with him when he left the place where Triock had died.

  Bannor was not gone long. He and Foamfollower returned dripping to dry themselves in the heat of the stone. Foamfollower had regained his composure. His teeth flashed through his stiff wet beard as if he were eager to be on his way-as if he were ready to fight his way through a sea of foes for one chance to strike a blow at the Despiser. And Bannor stood dourly at the Giant’s side. They were equals, despite the difference in size. They both met Covenant’s gaze when he looked up at them. For an odd moment he felt torn between them, as if they represented the opposing poles of his dilemma.

  But odder than this torn feeling was the confidence which came with it. In that fleeting moment, he seemed to recognize where he stood for the first time. While the impression lasted, his fear or reluctance or uncertainty dropped from him.’ “There’s one more thing,” he said to both his friends at once, “one more thing I’ve got to tell you.”

  Then, because he did not want to see their reactions until he had given them the whole tale, he sat gazing into the lifeless circle of his ring while he described how High Lord Mhoram had summoned him to Revelstone, and how he had refused.

  He spoke as concisely as he could without minimizing the plight of Revelstone as he had seen it then, or the danger of the little girl for whom he had denied Mhoram’s appeal, or the hysteria which had been on him when he had made his choice. He found as he spoke that he did not regret the decision. It seemed to have nothing to do with either his regret or his volition; he simply could not have chosen otherwise. But the Land had many reasons for regret-a myriad reasons, one for every life which had been lost, one for every day which had been added to the winter, because he had not given himself and his ring into Mhoram’s hands. He explained what he had done so that Bannor and Foamfollower at least would not be able to reproach him for dishonesty.

  When he was done, he looked up again. Neither Bannor nor Foamfollower met his eyes at first; in their separate ways, they appeared upset by what they had heard. But finally Bannor returned Covenant’s gaze and said levelly, “A costly choice, Unbeliever. Costly. Much harm might have been averted-“

  Foamfollower interrupted him. “Costly! Might!” A fierce grin stretched his lips, echoed out of his deep eyes. “A child was saved! Covenant-my friend-even reduced as I am, I can hear joy in such a choice. Your bravery-Stone and Sea! It astounds me.”

  Bannor was not swayed. “Call it bravery, then. It is costly nonetheless. The Land will bleed under the expense for many years, whatever the outcome of your purpose in Foul’s Creche.”

  Once again, Covenant was forced to say, ”I know.” He knew with a vividness that felt terrible to him. “I couldn’t do anything else. And-and I wasn’t ready then. I’m ready now-readier.” I’ll never be ready, he thought. It’s impossible to be ready for this. “Maybe I can do something now that I couldn’t do then.”

  Bannor held his eyes for another moment, then nodded brusquely. “Will you go now?” he asked without expression. “Corruption will be a hunt for you.”

  Covenant sighed, and pushed himself to his feet. “Yes.” He did not want to leave the comfort of the Colossus. “Ready or not. Let’s get on with it.”

  He walked between Bannor and Foamfollower, and they took him up the last of the hills to a place where he could look down the cliff of Landsdrop to the Spoiled Plains.

  The precipice seemed to leap out from behind the hill as if it had been hiding in ambush for Covenant-abruptly, he found himself looking over the edge and down two thousand feet-but he gripped the arms of his friends on either side and breathed deeply to hold back his vertigo. After a moment, the suddenness of the view faded, and he began to notice details.

  At the base of the hill on his right, the River Landrider swooped downward in a final rush to pour heavily over the lip of Landsdrop. The tumult of its roar was complex. In this region, the cliff broke into four or five ragged stairs, so that the waterfall went down by steps, all pounding simultaneously, anharmonically. From the bottom of the Fall, it angled away south-eastward into the perpetual wasteland of the Spoiled Plains.

  “There,” said Bannor, “there begins its ordeal. There the Landrider becomes the Ruinwash, and flows polluted toward the Sea. It is a murky and repelling water, unfit for use by any but its own unfit denizens. But it is your way for a time. It will provide a path for you through much of these hazardous Plains. And it will place you south of Kurash Qwellinir.

  “You know”- he nodded to Foamfollower- “that the Spoiled Plains form a wide deadland around the promontory of Ridjeck Thome, where Foul’s Creche juts into the Sea. Within that deadland lies Kurash Qwellinir, the Shattered Hills. Some say that these Hills were formed by the breaking of a mountain-others, that they were shaped from the slag and refuse of Corruption’s war caverns, furnaces, breeding dens. However they were made, they are a maze to bewilder the approach of any foe. And within them lies Gorak Krembal — Hotash Slay. From Sea-cliff to Sea-cliff about the promontory, it defends Corruption’s seat with lava, so that none may pass that way to gain the one gateless maw of the

  Creche.

  “Corruption’s creatures make their way to and from Ridjeck Thome through tunnels which open in secret places among Kurash Qwellinir. But it is in my heart that such an approach will not avail you. I do not doubt that a Giant may find a tunnel within the maze. But on that road all Corruption’s defending armies stand before you. You cannot pass.

  “I will tell you of a passage through the Shattered Hills on their southward side. The narrowest point of Hotash Slay is there, where the lava pours through a gash in the cliff into the Sea. A Giant may find crossing in that place.” He spoke as if he were discussing a convenient path among mountains, not an approach to the Corrupter of the Bloodguard. “In that way, it may be that you will take Ridjeck Thome by surprise.”

  Foamfollower absorbed this information, and nodded. Then he listened closely while Bannor detailed his route through the maze of Kurash Qwellinir. Covenant tried to listen also, but his attention wandered. He seemed to hear Landsdrop calling to him. Imminent vertigo foiled his concentration. Elena, he breathed to himself. He called her up in his mind, hoping that her image would steady him. But the emerald radiance of her fate made him wince and groan.

  No! he averred into the approach of dizziness. It doesn’t have to be that way. It’s my dream. I can do something about it.

  Foamfollower and Bannor were looking at him strangely. His fingers gripped them feebly, urgently. He could not take his eyes off the waterfall’s rush. It called him downward like the allure of death.

  He took a deep breath. Finger by finger, he forced himself to release his friends. “Let’s get going,” he murmured. “I can’t stand any more waiting.”

 
The Giant hefted his sack. “I am ready,” he said. “Our supplies are scant-but we have no recourse. We must hope for aliantha on the Lower Land.”

  Without looking away from the Fall, Covenant addressed Bannor. He could not ask the Bloodguard to change his decision, so he said, “You’ll bury Triock? He’s earned a decent grave.”

  Banner nodded, then said, “I will do another thing also.” He reached one hand into his short robe and drew out the charred metal heels of the Staff of Law. “I will bear these to Revelstone. When the time of my end comes upon me, I will return to the mountain home of the Haruchai. On the way, I will visit Revelstone-if the Lords and Lord’s Keep still stand. I know not what value may remain in this metal, but perhaps the survivors of this war will find some use for it.”

  Thank you, Covenant whispered silently.

  Banner put the bands away and bowed once briefly to Covenant and Foamfollower. “Look for help wherever you go,” he said. “Even in the Spoiled Plains, Corruption is not entirely master.” Before they could reply, he turned and trotted away toward the Colossus. As he passed over the hilltop, his back told them as clearly as speech that they would never see him again.

  Bannor! Covenant groaned. Was it that bad? He felt bereft, deserted, as if half his support had been taken away.

  “Gently, my friend,” Foamfollower breathed. “He has turned his back on vengeance. Two thousand years and more of pure service were violated for him-yet he chooses not to avenge them. Such choices are not easily made. They are not easily borne. Retribution-ah, my friend, retribution is the sweetest of all dark sweet dreams.”

  Covenant found himself still staring at the waterfall. The complex plunge of the river had a sweetness all its own. He shook himself. “Hellfire.” The emptiness of his curses seemed appropriate to his condition. “Are we going to do it or aren’t we?”