Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “I, also,” said Foamfollower quietly. “I have known both Mhoram son of Variol and Thomas Covenant.”

  Omens, hell! Covenant muttered to himself. Rape and betrayal. He sensed that Lena was gathering herself to make some kind of avowal. To prevent her, he pushed glaring to his feet. “That’s not all,” he grated. “Tamarantha and Prothall and Mhoram and who knows how many others thought that I was chosen for this by the Creator or whoever’s responsible in the end. Take consolation in that if you can. Never mind that it’s just another way of saying I chose myself. The idea itself isn’t so crazy. Creators are the most helpless people alive. They have to work through insufferable—they have to work through tools as blunt and misbegotten and useless as myself. Believe me, it’s easier just to burn the world down, reduce it to innocent or clean or at least dead ash. Which may be what I’m doing. How else could I—?”

  With an effort, he stopped himself. He had already iterated often enough the fundamental unbelief with which he viewed the Land; he had no reason to repeat that it was a delusion spawned by his abysmal incapacity for life. He had gone beyond the need for such assertions. Now he had to face their consequences. To begin, he broached a tangent of what was in his heart. “Did any of you see a break in the clouds—sometime—maybe a couple nights ago?”

  Triock stiffened. “We saw,” he said gruffly.

  “Did you see the moon?”

  “It was full.”

  “It was green!” Covenant spat. His vehemence cracked his swollen lip, and a trickle of blood started down his chin. He scrubbed the blood away with his numb fingers, steadied himself on the stone visage of his purpose. Ignoring the stares of the Stonedownors, he went on, “Never mind. Never mind that. Listen. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.”

  He met Triock’s gaze. Triock’s lips were white with tension, but his eyes crouched in their sockets as if they ached to flinch away from what they beheld. Covenant scowled into them. “You’re going to find some way to let Mhoram know I’m here.”

  For an instant, Triock gaped involuntarily. Then he drew himself up as if he were about to start yelling at Covenant. Seeing this, Foamfollower interposed, “Ur-Lord, do you know what you ask? Revelstone is three hundred leagues distant. In the best of times, even a Giant could not gain the high halls of Lord’s Keep in less than fifteen days.”

  “And the Plains are a swarm with marauders!” barked Triock. “From here to the joining of the Black and Mithil rivers, a strong band might fight and dodge its way in twenty days. But beyond—in the Center Plains—are the fell legions of the Gray Slayer. All the Land from Andelain to the Last Hills is under their dominion. With twenty thousand warriors, I could not battle my way even to the Soulsease River in twice or ten times fifty days.”

  Covenant began, “I don’t give a bloody damn what—”

  Flatly Quirrel interrupted him. “Further you must not call upon the Ranyhyn for aid. The creatures of the Gray Slayer prize Ranyhyn-flesh. The Ranyhyn would be taken and eaten.”

  “I don’t care!” Covenant fumed. “It doesn’t matter what you think is possible or impossible. Everything here is impossible. If we don’t start doing the impossible now, it’ll be too late. And Mhoram has got to know.”

  “Why?” Anger still crackled in Triock’s voice, but he was watching Covenant closely now, scrutinizing him as if he could see something malignant growing behind Covenant’s belligerence.

  Under Triock’s gaze, Covenant felt too ashamed to admit that he had already refused a summons from Mhoram. He could taste the outrage with which all the Stonedownors would greet such a confession. Instead he replied, “Because it will make a difference to him. If he knows where I am—if he knows what I’m doing—it’ll make a difference. He’ll know what to do.”

  “What can he do? Revelstone is besieged by an army as unanswerable as the Desert. High Lord Mhoram and all the Council are prisoners in Lord’s Keep. We are less helpless than they.”

  “Triock, you’re making a big mistake if you ever assume that Mhoram is helpless.”

  “The Unbeliever speaks truly,” Foamfollower said. “The son of Variol is a man of many resources. Much that may appear impossible is possible for him.”

  At this Triock looked at his hands, then nodded sharply. “I hear you. The High Lord must be told. But still I know not how such a thing may be accomplished. Much which may appear possible to Giants and white gold wielders is impossible for me.”

  “You’ve got one of those lomillialor rods,” rasped Covenant. “They were made for communication.”

  Triock growled in exasperation. “I have told you that I lack the lore for such work. I did not study the speaking of messages in the Loresraat.”

  “Then learn. By hell! Did you expect it to be easy? Learn!” Covenant knew how unfairly he was treating Triock, but the exigency of his purpose countenanced neither consideration nor failure.

  For a long moment, Triock glared miserably at Covenant, and his hands twitched with anger and helplessness. But then Quirrel whispered to him, and his eyes widened hopefully. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “Perhaps it may be done.” He made an effort to steady himself, forced a measure of calmness into his face. “It is said”—he swallowed thickly—“it is said that an Unfettered One lives in the mountains which protect the South Plains from Garroting Deep. Uncertain word of such a One has been whispered among the southron villages for—many years. It is said that he studies the slow breathing of the mountains—or that he gazes constantly across Garroting Deep in contemplation of Melenkurion Skyweir—or that he lives in a high place to learn the language of the wind. If such a One lives—if he may be found—perhaps he can make use of the High Wood as I cannot.”

  A rustle of excitement ran through the circle at this idea. Triock took a deep breath and nodded to his companions. “I will make this attempt.” Then a sardonic hue colored his voice. “If it also goes astray, I will at least know that I have striven to fulfill your choices.

  “Unbeliever, what word shall I send to High Lord Mhoram and the Council of Revelstone?”

  Covenant looked away, raised his face to the leaden sky. Snow had started to fall in the valley; a scattering of flakes drifted on the breeze like instants of mist, dimming the day even further. They had an early look about them, as if they presaged a heavy fall. For a moment, Covenant watched them tumble through the Stonedown. He was acutely conscious of Triock’s question. It confronted him starkly, challenged the untried mettle of his purpose. And he feared to answer it. He feared to hear himself say things which were so insane. When he returned his gaze to the waiting Stonedownors, he replied obliquely, seeking fuel for his courage.

  “Foamfollower, what happened to your people?”

  “My friend?”

  “Tell me what happened to the Giants.”

  Foamfollower squirmed at Covenant’s scowl. “Ah, ur-Lord, there is no need for such stories now. They are long in the telling, and would better suit another time. The present is full.”

  “Tell me!” Covenant hissed. “Bloody hell, Foamfollower! I want to know it all! I need—everything, every damned despicable thing that Foul—”

  Without warning, Triock interrupted him. “The Giants have returned to their Home beyond the Sunbirth Sea.”

  Covenant whirled toward Triock. The lie in his words was so palpable that it left Covenant gasping, and around him the Stonedownors gaped at Triock. But Triock met Covenant’s aghast stare without flinching. The cut along his jaw emphasized his determination. In a hard, steady voice that cut through Covenant’s superficial ire to the rage growing within him, Triock said, “We have sworn the Oath of Peace. Do not ask us to feed your hate. The Land will not be served by such passions.”

  “It’s all I’ve got!” Covenant answered thickly. “Don’t you understand? I don’t have anything else. Nothing! All by itself, it has got to be enough.”

  Gravely almost sorrowfully, Triock said, “Such a foe cannot be foug
ht with hate. I know. I have felt it in my heart.”

  “Hellfire, Triock! Don’t preach at me. I’m sick to death of being victimized. I’m sick of walking meekly or at least quietly and just putting my head on the block. I am going to fight this.”

  “Why?” Triock asked in a restrained voice. “What will you fight for?”

  “Are you deaf as well as blind?” Covenant wrapped his arms around his chest to steady himself. “I hate Foul. I’ve had all I can stand of—”

  “No. I am neither deaf nor blind. I see and hear that you intend to fight. What will you fight for? There is matter enough to occupy your hate in your own world. You are in the Land now. What will you fight for?”

  Hell and blood! Covenant shouted silently. How much of me do you want? But Triock’s question threw him back upon himself. He could have replied: I hate Foul because of what he’s doing to the Land. But that sounded like a disclaimer of responsibility, and he was too angry to deny his own convictions. He was too angry, also, to give Triock any comforting answer. In a brittle voice, he said, “I’m going to do it for myself. So that I can at least believe in me before I lose my mind altogether.”

  This response silenced Triock, and after a moment Foamfollower asked painfully, “My friend, what will you do with your passion?”

  Snow slowly thickened in the air. The flakes danced like motes of obscurity across Covenant’s vision, and the strain of his fierce stare made his unhealed forehead throb as if his skull were crippled with cracks. But he did not relent, could not relent now. “There’s only one good answer to someone like Foul.” Yet in spite of his anger, he found that he could not meet Foamfollower’s gaze.

  “What answer?”

  Involuntarily Covenant’s fingers bent into claws. “I’m going to bring Foul’s Creche down around his ears.”

  He heard the surprise and incredulity of the Stonedownors, but he ignored them. He listened only to Foamfollower as the Giant said, “Have you learned then how to make use of the white gold?”

  With all the intensity of conviction he could muster, Covenant replied, “I’ll find a way.”

  As he spoke, he believed himself. Hatred would be enough. Foul could not take it from him, could not quench it or deflect its aim. He, Thomas Covenant, was a leper; he alone in all the Land had the moral experience or training for this task. Facing between Foamfollower and Triock, addressing them both, he said, “You can either help me or not.”

  Triock met him squarely. “I will not aid you. I will undertake to send word of you to High Lord Mhoram—but I will not share in this defamation of Peace.”

  “It is the wild magic, Triock,” Foamfollower said as if he were pleading on Covenant’s behalf, “the wild magic which destroys Peace. You have heard the song. White gold surpasses all Oaths.”

  “Yet I will retain my own. Without the Oath, I would have slain the Unbeliever seven and forty years ago. Let him accept that, and be content.”

  Softly the Giant said, “I hear you, my friend. You are worthy of the Land you serve.” Then he turned to Covenant. “Ur-Lord, permit me to accompany you. I am a Giant—I may be of use. And I—I yearn to strike closer blows against the Soulcrusher who so appalled my kindred. And I know the peril. I have seen the ways in which we become what we hate. Permit me.”

  Before Covenant could reply, Lena jumped to her feet. “Permit me also!” she cried excitedly.

  “Lena!” Triock protested.

  She paid no attention to him. “I wish to accompany you. I have waited so long. I have striven to be worthy. I have mothered a High Lord and ridden a Ranyhyn. I am young and strong. Ah, I yearn to share with you. Permit me, Thomas Covenant.”

  The wind hummed softly between the houses, carrying the snow like haze into Covenant’s eyes. The flakes flicked cold at his sore lip, but still he nodded his approval of the gathering flurries. A good snowfall would cover his trail. The snow muffled the sounds of the village, and he seemed to be speaking to himself as he said, “Let’s get going. I’ve got debts to pay.”

  SEVEN: Message to Revelstone

  Though his jaws ached with protests, Triock gave the orders which sent several of his comrades hurrying to collect supplies for Covenant, Foamfollower, and Lena. In that moment, the giving of those orders seemed to be the hardest thing he had ever done. The restraint which had allowed Covenant to live seven and forty years ago paled by comparison. The exertions which had brought Covenant to the Land now lost their meaning. Lena Atiaran-daughter’s desire to accompany the Unbeliever turned all Triock’s long years of devotion to dust and loss, and all his lavish love had been wasted.

  Yet he could not refuse her—could not, though he had the authority to do so. He was one of Mithil Stonedown’s Circle of elders, and by old Stonedown tradition, even marriages and long journeys were subject to the approval of the Circle. Furthermore, he was the acknowledged leader of Mithil Stonedown’s defense. He could have commanded Lena to stay at home, and if his reasons were valid, all the Stonedown would have fought to keep her.

  His reasons were valid. Lena was old, half confused. She might hamper Covenant’s movements; she might even risk his life again, as she had so recently. She would be in danger from all the enemies between Mithil Stonedown and Foul’s Creche. Covenant was the one man responsible for her condition, the man who had permanently warped the channel of her life. And he, Triock son of Thuler—he loved her.

  Yet he gave the orders. He had never loved Lena in a way which would have enabled him to control her. At one time, he had been ready to break his Oath of Peace for her, but throughout most of his life now he had kept it for her. He had done his utmost to raise her daughter free of shame and outrage. He could not begin now to refuse the cost of a love to which he had so entirely given himself.

  Once that ordeal was over, he grew somewhat calmer. In the back of his heart, he believed that if there were any hope for the Land in Thomas Covenant, it depended upon Covenant’s responses to Lena. Then his chief bitterness lay in the fact that he himself could not accompany Covenant, could not go along to watch over Lena. He had his own work to do, work which he acknowledged and approved. Through the yearning clench of his jaws, he told himself that he would have to rely on Saltheart Foamfollower.

  With a brusque movement, he pushed the gray snow out of his eyes and looked toward the Giant. Foamfollower met his gaze, came over to him, and said, “Be easy at heart, my friend. You know that I am not an inconsiderable ally. I will do all I can for both.”

  “Take great care,” Triock breathed through his teeth. “The eyes which saw our work upon Kevin’s Watch are yet open. We did not close them in this battle.”

  Foamfollower studied this thought for a moment, then said, “If that is true, then it is you who must take the greatest care. You bear your High Wood into the hazard of the South Plains.”

  Triock shrugged. “High Wood or white gold—we must all tread cunningly. I can send none of my people with you.”

  With a nod of approval, the Giant said, “I would refuse if they were offered. You will need every sword. The mountains where you will seek this Unfettered One are many leagues distant, and you will be required to fight much of your way.”

  The clench of Triock’s teeth made his voice rasp harshly. “I take none but Quirrel and Yeurquin with me.”

  Foamfollower started to protest, but Triock cut him off. “I need the speed of few companions. And Mithil Stonedown stands now in its gravest peril. For the first time, we have given open battle to the marauders. With the power we revealed on Kevin’s Watch, and the strength of our victory here, we have declared beyond question that we are not mere vagabond warriors, seeking refuge in lifeless homes. We have defended our Stonedown—we are an unbeaten people. Therefore the enemy will return against us with a host to dwarf this last band. No, Rockbrother,” he concluded grimly, “every war-ready hand must remain to hold what we have won—lest our foes break upon the Stonedown like a wave and leave not one home standing.”

  After
a moment, Foamfollower sighed. “I hear you. Ah, Triock— these are grave times indeed. I will rest easier when my friend Mhoram son Of Variol has received word of what we do.”

  “You believe I will succeed?”

  “Who can if you cannot? You are hardy and knowledgeable, familiar with plains and mountains—and marauders. You have accepted the need, though your feet yearn to follow other paths. Those who pursue their heart’s desire risk more subtle failures and treacheries. In some ways, it is well to leave your soul wish in other hands.” He spoke musingly, as if in his thoughts he were comparing Triock’s position with his own. “You can accomplish this message purely.”

  “I reap one other blessing also,” Triock returned through a mouthful of involuntary gall. “The burden of mercy falls on your shoulders. Perhaps you will bear it more easily.”

  Foamfollower sighed again, then smiled gently. “Ah, my friend, I know nothing of mercy. My own need for it is too great.”

  The sight of Foamfollower’s smiling regret made Triock wish that he could protest against what the Giant said. But he understood only too well the complex loss and rue which weighed on Foamfollower. Instead he returned the best smile he could manage and saluted Foamfollower from the bottom of his heart. Then he turned away to make his own preparations for travel.

  In a short time, he packed blankets, an extra cloak, a small stoneware pot of graveling, supplies of dried meat, cheese, and fruit, and a knife to replace the one he had given Covenant, in a knapsack. He took only a few moments to whet his sword, and to secure his lomillialor rod in the tunic belt under his cloak. Yet when he returned to the open center of the Stonedown, he found Covenant, Foamfollower, and Lena ready to depart. Lena carried her own few belongings in a pack like his; Foamfollower had all the supplies for the three of them in his leather sack, which he slung easily over his shoulder; and Covenant’s wounded face held a look of intentness or frustration, as if only the hurt on his mouth kept him from complaining impatiently. In that look, Triock caught a glimpse of how fragile Covenant’s avowed hatred was. It did not appear to be a sustaining passion. Triock shivered. A foreboding distrust told him that Thomas Covenant’s resolve or passion would not suffice.