“No!” Covenant clamored. “You don’t understand. I’m not good at heights. I’ll fall.” As they wrestled him toward the gate, he shouted, “Hellfire! You’re trying to kill me!”
His captors halted momentarily. He heard a series of shouts, but in his confused, angry panic he did not understand. Then the leader said, “If you do not climb well, you will not be asked to climb.”
The next moment, the end of a rope fell beside Covenant. Instantly two more men lashed his wrists to the line. Before he realized what was happening, the rope sprang taut. He was hauled into the air like a sack of miscellaneous helplessness.
He thought he heard a shout of protest from Atiaran, but he could not be sure. Crying silently, Bloody hell! he tensed his shoulders against the strain and stared wildly up into the darkness. He could not see anyone drawing up the rope—in the last glimmering of the torch, the line seemed to stretch up into an abyss—and that made him doubly afraid.
Then the light below him vanished.
The next moment, a low rustling of leaves told him that he had reached the level of the first branches. He saw a yellow glow through the upper opening of the tree’s stairwell. But the rope hauled him on upward into the heights of the village.
His own movements made him swing slightly, so that at odd intervals he brushed against the leaves.
But that was his only contact with the tree. He saw no lights, heard no voices; the deep black weights of the mighty limbs slid smoothly past him as if he were being dragged into the sky.
Soon both his shoulders throbbed sharply, and his arms went numb. With his head craned upward, he gaped into a lightless terror and moaned as if he were drowning, Hellfire! Ahh!
Then without warning his movement stopped. Before he could brace himself, a torch flared, and he found himself level with three men who were standing on a limb. In the sudden light, they looked identical to the men who had captured him, but one of them had a small circlet of leaves about his head. The other two considered Covenant for a moment, then reached out and gripped his shirt, pulling him toward their limb. As the solid branch struck his feet, the rope slackened; letting his arms drop.
His wrists were still tied together, but he tried to get a hold on one of the men, keep himself from falling off the limb. His arms were dead; he could not move them. The darkness stretched below him like a hungry beast. With a gasp, he lunged toward the men, striving to make them save him. They grappled him roughly. He refused to bear his own weight, forced them to carry and drag him down the limb until they came to a wide gap in the trunk. There the center of the stem was hollowed out to form a large chamber, and Covenant dropped heavily to the floor, shuddering with relief.
Shortly a rising current of activity began around him. He paid no attention to it; he kept his eyes shut to concentrate on the hard stability of the floor, and on the pain of blood returning to his hands and arms. The hurt was excruciating, but he endured it in clenched silence. Soon his hands were tingling, and his fingers felt thick, hot. He flexed them, curled them into claws. Through his teeth, he muttered to the fierce rhythm of his heart, Hellfire. Hell and blood.
He opened his eyes.
He was lying on polished wood at the center of the myriad concentric circles of the tree trunk. The age rings made the rest of the room seem to focus toward him as if he were sprawled on a target. His arms felt unnaturally inarticulate, but he forced them to thrust him into a sitting position. Then he looked at his hands. His wrists were raw from the cut of the rope, but they were not bleeding.
Bastards!
He raised his head and glowered around him.
The chamber was about twenty feet wide, and seemed to fill the whole inside diameter of the trunk. The only opening was the one through which he had stumbled, and he could see darkness outside; but the room was brightly lit by torches set into the walls—torches which burned smokelessly, and did not appear to be consumed. The polished walls gleamed as if they were burnished, but the ceiling, high above the floor, was rough, untouched wood.
Five Woodhelvennin stood around Covenant in the hollow—three men, including the one wearing the circlet of leaves, and two women. They all were dressed in similar cloaks which clung to their outlines, though the colors varied, and all were taller than Covenant. Their tallness seemed threatening, so he got slowly to his feet, lowering the pack from his shoulders as he stood.
A moment later, the man who had led Covenant’s captors on the ground entered the chamber, followed by Atiaran. She appeared unharmed, but weary and depressed, as though the climb and the distrust had sapped her strength. When she saw Covenant, she moved to take her stand beside him.
One of the women said, “Only two, Soranal?”
“Yes,” Atiaran’s guard answered. “We watched, and there were no others as they crossed the south glade. And our scouts have not reported any other strangers in the hills.”
“Scouts?” asked Atiaran. “I did not know that scouts were needed among the people of the Land.”
The woman took a step forward and replied, “Atiaran Trell-mate, the folk of Mithil Stonedown have been known to us since our return to the Land in the new age. And there are those among us who remember your visit here. We know our friends, and the value of friendship.”
“Then in what way have we deserved this treatment?” Atiaran demanded. “We came in search of friends.”
The woman did not answer Atiaran’s question directly. “Because we are all people of the Land,” she said, “and because our peril is a peril for all, I will attempt to ease the sting of our discourtesy by explaining our actions. We in this heartwood chamber are the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven, the leaders of our people. I am Llaura daughter of Annamar. Here also”—she indicated each individual with a nod—“are Omournil daughter of Mournil, Soranal son of Thiller, Padrias son of Mill, Malliner son of Veinnin, and Baradakas, Hirebrand of the lillianrill.” This last was the man wearing the circlet of leaves. “We made the decision of distrust, and will give our reasons.
“I see that you are impatient.” A taste of bitterness roughened her voice. “Well, I will not tire you with the full tale of the blighting wind which has blown over us from time to time from Gravin Threndor. I will not describe the angry storms, or show you the body of the three-winged bird that died atop our Woodhelven, or discuss the truth of the rumors of murder which have reached our ears. By the Seven! There are angry songs that should be sung—but I will not sing them now. This I will tell you: all servants of the Gray Slayer are not dead. It is our belief that a Raver has been among us.”
That name carried a pang of danger that made Covenant look rapidly about him, trying to locate the peril. For an instant, he did not comprehend. But then he noticed how Atiaran stiffened at Llaura’s words—saw the jumping knot at the corner of her jaw, felt the heightened fear in her, though she said nothing—and he understood. The Woodhelvennin feared that he and she might be Ravers.
Without thinking, he snapped, “That’s ridiculous.”
The Heers ignored him. After a short pause, Soranal continued Llaura’s explanation. “Two days past, in the high sun of afternoon, when our people were busy at their crafts and labors, and the children were playing in the upper branches of the Tree, a stranger came to Soaring Woodhelven. Two days earlier, the last ill storm out of Mount Thunder had broken suddenly and turned into good—and on the day the stranger came our hearts were glad, thinking that a battle we knew not of had been won for the Land. He wore the appearance of a Stonedownor, and said his name was Jehannum. We welcomed him with the hospitality which is the joy of the Land. We saw no reason to doubt him, though the children shrank from him with unwonted cries and fears. Alas for us—the young saw more clearly than the old.
“He passed among us with dark hints and spite in his mouth, casting sly ridicule on our crafts and customs. And we could not answer him. But we remembered Peace, and did nothing for a day.
“In that time, Jehannum’s hints turned to open foretelling of doo
m. So at last we called him to the heartwood chamber and the meeting of the Heers. We heard the words he chose to speak, words full of glee and the reviling of the Land. Then our eyes saw more deeply, and we offered him the test of the lomillialor.”
“You know of the High Wood, lomillialor—do you not, Atiaran?” Baradakas spoke for the first time. “There is much in it like the orcrest of the rhadhamaerl. It is an offspring of the One Tree, from which the Staff of Law itself was made.”
“But we had no chance to make the test,” Soranal resumed. “When Jehannum saw the High Wood, he sprang away from us and escaped. We gave pursuit, but he had taken us by surprise—we were too full of quiet, not ready for such evils—and his fleetness far surpassed ours. He eluded us, and made his way toward the east.”
He sighed as he concluded, “In the one day which has passed since that time, we have begun relearning the defense of the Land.”
After a moment, Atiaran said quietly, “I hear you. Pardon my anger—I spoke in haste and ignorance. But surely now you can see that we are no friends of the Gray Slayer.”
“We see much in you, Atiaran Trell-mate,” said Llaura, her eyes fixed keenly on the Stonedownor, “much sorrow and much courage. But your companion is closed to us. It may be that we will need to imprison this Thomas Covenant.”
“Melenkurion!” hissed Atiaran. “Do not dare! Do you not know? Have you not looked at him?”
At this, a murmur of relief passed among the Heers, a murmur which accented their tension. Stepping toward Atiaran, Soranal extended his right hand, palm forward, in the salute of welcome, and said, “We have looked—looked and heard. We trust you, Atiaran Trell-mate. You have spoken a name which no Raver would call upon to save a companion.” He took her by the arm and drew her away from Covenant, out of the center of the chamber.
Without her at his shoulder, Covenant felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable. For the first time, he sensed how much he had come to depend upon her presence, her guidance, if not her support. But he was in no mood to meet threats passively. He poised himself on the balls of his feet, ready to move in any direction; and his eyes shifted quickly among, the faces that stared at him from the gleaming walls of the chamber.
“Jehannum predicted many things,” said Llaura, “but one especially you should be told. He said that a great evil in the semblance of Berek Halfhand walked the hills toward us out of the south. And here—” She pointed a pale arm at Covenant, her voice rising sternly as she spoke. “Here is an utter stranger to the Land—half unhanded on his right, and on his left bearing a ring of white gold. Beyond doubt carrying messages to the Lords—messages of doom!”
With a pleading intensity, Atiaran said, “Do not presume to judge. Remember the Oath. You are not Lords. And dark words may be warnings as well as prophecies. Will you trust the word of a Raver?”
Baradakas shrugged slightly. “It is not the message we judge. Our test is for the man.” Reaching behind him, he lifted up a smooth wooden rod three feet long from which all the bark had been stripped. He held it by the middle gently, reverently. “This is lomillialor.” As he said the name, the wood glistened as if its clear grain were moist with dew.
What the hell is this? Covenant tried to balance himself for whatever was coming.
But the Hirebrand’s next move caught him by surprise. Baradakas swung his rod and lofted it toward the Unbeliever.
He jerked aside and clutched at the lomillialor with his right hand. But he did not have enough fingers to get a quick grip on it; it slipped away from him, dropped to the floor with a wooden click that seemed unnaturally loud in the hush of the chamber.
For an instant, everyone remained still, frozen while they absorbed the meaning of what they had seen. Then, in unison, the Heers uttered their verdict with all the finality of a death sentence.
“The High Wood rejects him. He is a wrong in the Land.”
TEN: The Celebration of Spring
In one fluid motion, Baradakas drew a club from his cloak and raised it as he moved toward Covenant.
Covenant reacted instinctively, defensively. Before the Hirebrand could reach him, he stooped and snatched up the lomillialor rod with his left hand. As Baradakas swung the club at his head, he slashed the Hirebrand’s arm with the rod.
In a shower of white sparks, the club sprang into splinters. Baradakas was flung back as if he had been blasted away by an explosion.
The force of the hit vibrated through Covenant’s hand to his elbow, and his fingers were struck momentarily numb. The rod started to slip from his hand. He gaped at it, thinking, What the hell—?
But then the mute astonishment of the Heers, and the Hirebrand’s crumpled form, steadied him. Test me? he rasped. Bastards. He took the rod in his right hand, holding it by the middle as Baradakas had done. Its glistening wood felt slick; it gave him a sensation of slippage, as if it were oozing from his grasp, though the wood did not actually move. As he gripped it, he glared around at the Heers, put all the anger their treatment had sparked in him into his gaze. “Now why don’t you tell me one more time about how this thing rejects me.”
Soranal and Llaura stood on either side of Atiaran, with Malliner opposite them against the wall. Omournil and Padrias were bent over the fallen Hirebrand. As Covenant surveyed them, Atiaran faced him grimly. “In the older age,” she said, “when High Lord Kevin trusted the Gray Slayer, he was given priceless gifts of orcrest and lomillialor. The tale says that these gifts were soon lost—but while the Gray Slayer possessed them they did not reject him. It is possible for Despite to wear the guise of truth. Perhaps the wild magic surpasses truth.”
Thanks a lot! Covenant glowered at her. What’re you trying to do to me?
In a pale voice, Llaura replied, “That is the tale. But we are only Woodhelvennin—not Lords. Such matters are beyond us. Never in the memory of our people has a test of truth struck down a Hirebrand of the lillianrill. What is the song?—‘he will save or damn the Earth.’ Let us pray that we will not find damnation for our distrust.” Extending an unsteady hand toward Covenant in the salute of welcome, she said, “Hail, Unbeliever! Pardon our doubts, and be welcome in Soaring Woodhelven.”
For an instant, Covenant faced her with a bitter retort twisting his lips. But he found when he met her eyes that he could see the sincerity of her apology. The perception abashed his vehemence. With conflicting intentions, he muttered, “Forget it.”
Llaura and Soranal both bowed as if he had accepted her apology. Then they turned to watch as Baradakas climbed dazedly to his feet. His hands pulled at his face as if it were covered with cobwebs, but he assured Omournil and Padrias that he was unharmed. With a mixture of wonder and dismay in his eyes, he also saluted Covenant.
Covenant responded with a dour nod. He did not wait for the Hirebrand to ask; he handed the lomillialor to Baradakas, and was glad to be rid of its disquieting, insecure touch.
Baradakas received the rod and smiled at it crookedly, as if it had witnessed his defeat. Then he slipped it away into his cloak. Turning his smile toward Covenant, he said, “Unbeliever, our presences are no longer needed here. You have not eaten, and the weariness of your journey lies heavily upon you. Will you accept the hospitality of my house?”
The invitation surprised Covenant; for a moment he hesitated, trying to decide whether or not he could trust the Hirebrand. Baradakas appeared calm, unhostile, but his smile was more complex than Llaura’s apology. But then Covenant reflected that if the question were one of trust, he would be safer with Baradakas alone than with all the Heers together. Stiffly he said, “You honor me.”
The Hirebrand bowed. “In accepting a gift you honor the giver.” He looked around at the other Woodhelvennin, and when they nodded their approval, he turned and moved out of the heartwood chamber.
Covenant glanced toward Atiaran, but she was already talking softly to Soranal. Without further delay, he stepped out onto the broad limb beside Baradakas.
The night over the great tree was now scat
tered with lights—the home fires of the Woodhelvennin. They illuminated the fall far down through the branches, but did not reach to the ground. Involuntarily Covenant clutched at Baradakas’ shoulder.
“It is not far,” the Hirebrand said softly. “Only up to the next limb. I will come behind you—you will not fall.”
Cursing silently through his teeth, Covenant gripped the rungs of the ladder. He wanted to retreat, go back to the solidity of the heartwood chamber, but pride and anger prevented him. And the rungs felt secure, almost adhesive, to his fingers. When Baradakas placed a reassuring hand on his back, he started awkwardly upward.
As Baradakas had promised, the next limb was not far away. Soon Covenant reached another broad branch. A few steps out from the trunk, it forked, and in the fork sat the Hirebrand’s home. Holding Baradakas’ shoulders for support, he gained the doorway, crossed the threshold as if he were being blown in by a gust of relief.
He was in a neat, two-roomed dwelling formed entirely from the branches of the tree. Interwoven limbs made part of the floor and all the walls, including the partition between the rooms. And the ceiling was a dome of twigs and leaves. Along one wall of the first room, broad knees of wood grew into the chamber like chairs, and a bunk hung opposite them. The place had a warm, clean atmosphere, an ambience of devotion to lore, that Covenant found faintly disturbing, like a reminder that the Hirebrand could be a dangerous man.
While Covenant scanned the room, Baradakas set torches in each of the outer walls and lit them by rubbing his hands over their ends and murmuring softly. Then he rummaged around in the far room for a moment, and returned carrying a tray laden with slabs of bread and cheese, a large bunch of grapes, and a wooden jug. He set a small, three-legged table between two of the chairs, put the tray on it, and motioned for Covenant to sit down.
At the sight of the food, Covenant discovered that he was hungry; he had eaten nothing but aliantha for the past two days. He watched while Baradakas bowed momentarily over the food. Then he seated himself. Following his host’s example, he made sandwiches with cheese and grapes between slices of fresh bread, and helped himself liberally to the jug of springwine. In the first rush of eating, he said nothing, saving his attention for the food.
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