Atiaran bowed slightly. “Accepting that which is offered honors the giver. And courtesy is always welcome.” Then she seemed to hesitate again, uncertain of how to proceed. Covenant watched the return of old conflicts to her eyes, thinking that gaze would have an extraordinary power if it were not so inward. But she reached her decision soon, and said, “It is not the custom of our people to worry a guest with hard questions before eating. But the food is not ready”—she glanced at Lena—“and you are strange to me, Thomas Covenant, strange and disquieting. I would talk with you if I may, while Lena prepares what food we have. You seem to bear a need that should not wait.”
Covenant shrugged noncommittally. He felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of her questions, and braced himself to try to answer them without losing his new balance.
In the pause, Lena began moving around the room. She went to the shelves to get plates and bowls for the table, and prepared some dishes on a slab of stone heated from underneath by a tray of graveling. She turned her eyes toward Covenant often as she moved, but he did not always notice. Atiaran compelled his attention.
At first, she murmured uncertainly, “I hardly know where to begin. It has been so long, and I learned so little of what the Lords know. But what I have must be enough. No one here can take my place.” She straightened her shoulders. “May I see your hands?”
Remembering Lena’s initial reaction to him, Covenant held up his right hand.
Atiaran moved around the table until she was close enough to touch him, but did not. Instead, she searched his face. “Halfhand. It is as Trell said. And some say that Berek Earthfriend, Heartthew and Lord-Fatherer, will return to the Land when there is need. Do you know these things?”
Covenant answered gruffly, “No.”
Still looking into his face, Atiaran said, “Your other hand?”
Puzzled, he raised his left. She dropped her eyes to it.
When she saw it, she gasped, and bit her lip and stepped back. For an instant, she seemed inexplicably terrified. But she mastered herself, and asked with only a low tremble in her voice, “What metal is that ring?”
“What? This?” Her reaction startled Covenant, and in his surprise he gaped at a complicated memory of Joan saying, With this ring I thee wed, and the old ocher-robed beggar replying, Be true, be true. Darkness threatened him. He heard himself answer as if he were someone else, someone who had nothing to do with leprosy and divorce, “It’s white gold.”
Atiaran groaned, clamped her hands over her temples as if she were in pain. But again she brought herself under control, and a bleak courage came into her eyes. “I alone,” she said, “I alone in Mithil Stonedown know the meaning of this. Even Trell has not this knowledge. And I know too little. Answer, Thomas Covenant—is it true?”
I should’ve thrown it away, he muttered bitterly. A leper’s got no right to be sentimental.
But Atiaran’s intensity drew his attention toward her again. She gave him the impression that she knew more about what was happening to him than he did—that he was moving into a world which, in some dim, ominous way, had been made ready for him. His old anger mounted. “Of course it’s true,” he snapped. “What’s the matter with you? It’s only a ring.”
“It is white gold.” Atiaran’s reply sounded as forlorn as if she had just suffered a bereavement.
“So what?” He could not understand what distressed the woman. “It doesn’t mean a thing. Joan—” Joan had preferred it to yellow gold. But that had not prevented her from divorcing him.
“It is white gold,” Atiaran repeated. “The Lords sing an ancient lore-song concerning the bearer of white gold. I remember only a part of it, thus:
And he who wields white wild magic gold
is a paradox—
for he is everything and nothing,
hero and fool,
potent, helpless—
and with the one word of truth or treachery,
he will save or damn the Earth
because he is mad and sane,
cold and passionate,
lost and found.
Do you know the song, Covenant? There is no white gold in the Land. Gold has never been found in the Earth, though it is said that Berek knew of it, and made the songs. You come from another place. What terrible purpose brings you here?”
Covenant felt her searching him with her eyes for some flaw, some falsehood which would give the lie to her fear. He stiffened. You have might, the Despiser had said, wild magic— You will never know what it is. The idea that his wedding band was some kind of talisman nauseated him like the smell of attar. He had a savage desire to shout. None of this is happening! But he only knew of one workable response: don’t think about it, follow the path, survive. He met Atiaran on her own ground. “All purposes are terrible. I have a message for the Council of Lords.”
“What message?” she demanded.
After only an instant’s hesitation, he grated, “The Gray Slayer has come back.”
When she heard Covenant pronounce that name, Lena dropped the stoneware bowl she was carrying, and fled into her mother’s arms.
Covenant stood glowering at the shattered bowl. The liquid it had contained gleamed on the smooth stone floor. Then he heard Atiaran pant in horror, “How do you know this?” He looked back at her, and saw the two women clinging together like children threatened by the demon of their worst dreams. Leper outcast unclean! he thought sourly. But as he watched, Atiaran seemed to grow solider. Her jaw squared, her broad glance hardened. For all her fear, she was a strong woman comforting her child—and bracing herself to meet her danger. Again she asked, “How do you know?”
She made him feel defensive, and he replied, “I met him on Kevin’s Watch.”
“Ah, alas!” she cried, hugging Lena. “Alas for the young in this world! The doom of the Land is upon them. Generations will die in agony, and there will be war and terror and pain for those who live! Alas, Lena my daughter. You were born into an evil time, and there will be no peace or comfort for you when the battle comes. Ah, Lena, Lena.”
Her grief touched an undefended spot in Covenant, and his throat thickened. Her voice filled his own image of the Land’s Desolation with a threnody he had not heard before. For the first time, he sensed that the Land held something precious which was in danger of being lost.
This combination of sympathy and anger tightened his nerves still further. He vibrated to a sharper pitch, trembled. When he looked at Lena, he saw that a new awe of him had already risen above her panic. The unconscious offer in her eyes burned more disturbingly than ever.
He held himself still until Atiaran and Lena slowly released each other. Then he asked, “What do you know about all this? About what’s happening to me?”
Before Atiaran could reply, a voice called from outside the house, “Hail! Atiaran Tiaran-daughter. Trell Gravelingas tells us that your work is done for this day. Come and sing to the Stonedown!”
For a moment, Atiaran stood still, shrinking back into herself. Then she sighed, “Ali, the work of my life has just begun,” and turned to the door. Holding aside the curtain, she said into the night, “We have not yet eaten. I will come later. But after the gathering I must speak with the Circle of elders.”
“They will be told,” the voice answered.
“Good,” said Atiaran. But instead of returning to Covenant, she remained in the doorway, staring into the darkness for a while. When she closed the curtain at last and faced Covenant, her eyes were moist, and they held a look that he at first thought was defeat. But then he realized that she was only remembering defeat. “No, Thomas Covenant,” she said sadly, “I know nothing of your fate. Perhaps if I had remained at the Loresraat longer—if I had had the strength. But I passed my limit there, and came home. I know a part of the old Lore that Mithil Stonedown does not guess, but it is too little. All that I can remember for you are hints of a wild magic which destroys peace—
wild magic graven in every rock,
contained for white gold to unleash or control—
but the meaning of such lines, or the courses of these times, I do not know. That is a double reason to take you to the Council.” Then she looked squarely into his face, and added, “I tell you openly, Thomas Covenant—if you have come to betray the Land, only the Lords may hope to stop you.”
Betray? This was another new thought. An instant passed before he realized what Atiaran was suggesting. But before he could protest, Lena put in for him, “Mother! He fought a gray cloud on Kevin’s Watch. I saw it. How can you doubt him?” Her defense controlled his belligerent reaction. Without intending to, she had put him on false ground. He had not gone so far as to fight Lord Foul.
Trell’s return stopped any reply Atiaran might have made. The big man stood in the doorway for a moment, looking between Atiaran and Lena and Covenant. Abruptly he said, “So. We are come on hard times.”
“Yes, Trell my husband,” murmured Atiaran. “Hard times.”
Then his eyes caught the shards of stoneware on the floor. “Hard times, indeed,” he chided gently, “when stoneware is broken, and the pieces left to powder underfoot.”
This time, Lena was genuinely ashamed. “I am sorry, Father,” she said. “I was afraid.”
“No matter.” Trell went to her and placed his big hands, light with affection, on her shoulders. “Some wounds may be healed. I feel strong today.”
At this, Atiaran gazed gratefully at Trell as if he had just undertaken some heroic task.
To Covenant’s incomprehension, she said, “Be seated, guest. Food will be ready soon. Come, Lena.” The two of them began to bustle around the cooking stone.
Covenant watched as Trell started to pick up the pieces of the broken pot. The Gravelingas’ voice rumbled softly, singing an ancient subterranean song. Tenderly he carried the shards to the table and set them down near the lamp. Then he seated himself. Covenant sat beside him, wondering what was about to happen.
Singing his cavernous song between clenched teeth, Trell began to fit the shards together as if the pot were a puzzle. Piece after piece he set in place, and each piece held where he left it without any adhesive Covenant could see. Trell moved painstakingly, his touch delicate on every fragment, but the pot seemed to grow quickly in his hands, and the pieces fit together perfectly, leaving only a network of fine black lines to mark the breaks. Soon all the shards were in place.
Then his deep tone took on a new cadence. He began to stroke the stoneware with his fingers, and everywhere his touch passed, the black fracture-marks vanished as if they had been erased. Slowly, he covered every inch of the pot with his caress. When he had completed the outside, he stroked the inner surface. And finally he lifted the pot, spread his touch over its base. Holding the pot between the fingers of both hands, he rotated it carefully, making sure he had missed nothing. Then he stopped singing, set the pot down gently, took his hands away. It was as complete and solid as if it had never been dropped.
Covenant pulled his awed stare away from the pot to Trell’s face. The Gravelingas looked haggard with strain, and his taut cheeks were streaked with tears. “Mending is harder than breaking,” he mumbled. “I could not do this every day.” Wearily he folded his arms on the table and cradled his head in them.
Atiaran stood behind her husband, massaging the heavy muscles of his shoulders and neck, and her eyes were full of pride and love. Something in her expression made Covenant feel that he came from a very poor world, where no one knew or cared about healing stoneware pots. He tried to tell himself that he was dreaming, but he did not want to listen.
After a silent pause full of respect for Trell’s deed, Lena started to set the table. Soon Atiaran brought bowls of food from the cooking stone. When everything was ready, Trell lifted his head, climbed tiredly to his feet. With Atiaran and Lena, he stood beside the table. Atiaran said to Covenant, “It is the custom of our people to stand before eating, as a sign of our respect for the Earth, from which life and food and power come.” Covenant stood as well, feeling awkward and out of place. Trell and Atiaran and Lena closed their eyes, bowed their heads for a moment. Then they sat down. When Covenant had followed them to the bench, they began to pass around the food.
It was a bountiful meal: there was cold salt beef covered with a steaming gravy, wild rice, dried apples, brown bread, and cheese; and Covenant was given a tall mug of a drink which Lena called springwine. This beverage was as clear and light as water, slightly effervescent, and it smelled dimly of aliantha; but it tasted like a fine beer which had been cured of all bitterness. Covenant had downed a fair amount of it before he realized that it added a still keener vibration to his already thrumming nerves. He could feel himself tightening. He was too full of unusual pressures. Soon he was impatient for the end of the meal, impatient to leave the house and expand in the night air.
But Lena’s family ate slowly, and a pall hung over them. They dined as deliberately as if this meal marked the end of all their happiness together. In the silence, Covenant realized that this was a result of his presence. It made him uneasy.
To ease himself, he tried to increase what he knew about his situation. “I have a question,” he said stiffly. With a gesture, he took in the whole Stonedown. “No wood. There’s plenty of trees all over this valley, but I don’t see you using any wood. Are the trees sacred or something?”
After a moment, Atiaran replied, “Sacred? I know that word, but its meaning is obscure to me. There is Power in the Earth, in trees and rivers and soil and stone, and we respect it for the life it gives. So we have sworn the Oath of Peace. Is that what you ask? We do not use wood because the wood-lore, the lillianrill, is lost to us, and we have not sought to regain it. In the exile of our people, when Desolation was upon the Land, many precious things were lost. Our people clung to the rhadhamaerl lore in the Southron Range and the Wastes, and it enabled us to endure. The wood-lore seemed not to help us, and it was forgotten. Now that we have returned to the Land, the stone-lore suffices for us. But others have kept the lillianrill. I have seen Soaring Woodhelven, in the hills far north and east of us, and it is a fair place—their people understand wood, and flourish. There is some trade between Stonedown and Woodhelven, but wood and stone are not traded.”
When she stopped, Covenant sensed a difference in the new silence. A moment passed before he was sure that he could hear a distant rumor of voices. Shortly Atiaran confirmed this by saying to Trell, “Ah, the gathering. I promised to sing tonight.”
She and Trell stood together, and he said, “So. And then you will speak with the Circle of elders. Some preparations for tomorrow I will make. See”—he pointed at the table—“it will be a fine day—there is no shadow on the heart of the stone.”
Almost in spite of himself, Covenant looked where Trell pointed. But he could see nothing.
Noticing his blank look, Atiaran said kindly, “Do not be surprised, Thomas Covenant. No one but a rhadhamaerl can foretell weather in such stones as this. Now come with me, if you will, and I will sing the legend of Berek Halfhand.” As she spoke, she took the pot of graveling from the table to carry with her. “Lena, will you clean the stoneware?”
Covenant got to his feet. Glancing at Lena, he saw her face twisted with unhappy obedience; she clearly wanted to go with them. But Trell also saw her expression and said, “Accompany our guest, Lena my daughter. I will not be too busy to care for the stoneware.”
Pleasure transformed her instantly, and she leaped up to throw her arms around her father’s neck. He returned her embrace for a moment, then lowered her to the floor. She straightened her shift, trying to look suddenly demure, and moved to her mother’s side.
Atiaran said, “Trell, you will teach this girl to think she is a queen.” But she took Lena’s hand to show that she was not angry, and together they went past the curtain. Covenant followed promptly, went out of the house into the starry night with a sense of release. There was more room for him to explore himself under the open sky.
Perhaps he was crazy. Perhaps he was at this moment wandering in dementia, tormenting himself with false griefs and demands, the impositions of an illusion. Such things had happened to lepers.
I’m not! he shouted, almost cried out aloud. I know the difference—I know I’m dreaming.
His fingers twitched with violence, but he drew cool air deep into his lungs, put everything behind him. He knew how to survive a dream. Madness was the only danger.
As they walked together between the houses, Lena’s smooth arm brushed his. His skin felt lambent at the touch.
The murmur of people grew quickly louder. Soon Lena, Atiaran, and Covenant reached the circle, moved into the gathering of the Stonedown.
It was lit by dozens of hand-held graveling pots, and in the illumination Covenant could see clearly. Men, women, and children clustered the rim of the circle. Covenant guessed that virtually the entire Stonedown had come to hear Atiaran sing. Most of the people were shorter than he was—and considerably shorter than Trell—and they had dark hair, brown or black, again unlike Trell. But they were a stocky, broad-shouldered breed, and even the women and children gave an impression of physical strength; centuries of stone-work had shaped them to suit their labor. Covenant felt the same dim fear of them that he had of Trell. They seemed too strong, and he had nothing but his strangeness to protect him if they turned against him.
They were busy talking to each other, apparently waiting for Atiaran, and they gave no sign of noticing Covenant. Reluctant to call attention to himself, he hung back at the outer edges of the gathering. Lena stopped with him. Atiaran gave her the graveling pot, then moved away through the crowd toward the center of the circle.
Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Page 8
