The Wounded Land t2cotc-1
Page 32
The face he had seen earlier returned. The man smiled at him, helped him into a sitting position. “Have care, ring-wielder. You have been mortally ill. This weakness will be slow to depart.” The man placed a bowl of dark fluid in Covenant's hands and gently pressed him to drink. The liquid had a musty, alien flavour; but it steadied him as it went down into his emptiness.
He began to look around more closely. His bed was in the centre of the chamber, raised above the floor like a catafalque of grass. The native stone of the walls and dome had been meticulously smoothed and shaped. The ceiling was not high, but he would be able to stand erect. Low entryways marked opposite walls of the room. The braziers were made of unadorned grey stone and supported by iron tripods. The thick, black fluid in them burned without smoke.
When he turned his head far enough, he found Vain near him.
The Demondim-spawn stood with his arms hanging slightly bent. His lips wore a fault, ambiguous smile, and his eyes, black without pupil or iris, looked like the orbs of a blind man.
A quiver of revulsion shook Covenant. “Get-” His voice scraped his throat like a rusty knife. “Get him out of here.”
The man supported him with an arm around his back. “Perhaps it could be done,” he said, smiling wryly. “But great force would be required. Do you have cause to fear him?”
“He-” Covenant winced at chancrous memories: Sunbane victims dancing; Vain's grin. He had difficulty forcing words past the blade in his throat. “Refused to help me.” The thought of his own need made him tremble. “Get rid of him.”
“Ah, ring-wielder,” the man said with a frown, “such questions are not so blithely answered. There is much that I must tell you-and much I wish to be told.”
He faced Covenant; and Covenant observed him clearly for the first time. He had the dark hah-and stocky frame of a Stonedownor, though he wore nothing but a wide piece of leather belted around his waist. The softness of his brown eyes suggested sympathy; but his cheeks had been deeply cut by old grief, and the twitching of his mouth gave the impression that he was too well acquainted with fear and incomprehension. His skin had the distinctive pallor of a man who had once been richly tanned. Covenant felt an immediate surge of empathy for him.
“I am Hamako,” the man said. “My former name was one which the Waynhim could not utter, and I have foresworn it. The Waynhim name you ring-wielder in their tongue-and as ring-wielder you are well known to them. But I will gladly make use of any other name you desire.”
Covenant swallowed, took another drink from the bowl. “Covenant,” he said hoarsely. “I'm Thomas Covenant.”
The man accepted this with a nod. “Covenant.” Then he returned to the question of Vain. “For two days,” he said, “while you have lain in fever, the Waynhim have striven with the riddle of this Demondim-spawn. They have found purpose in him, but not harm. This is an astonishment to them, for they perceive clearly the hands of the ur-viles which made him, and they have no trust for ur-viles. Yet he is an embodiment of lore which the Waynhim comprehend. Only one question disturbs them.” Hamako paused as if reluctant to remind Covenant of past horrors. “When you freed dhraga Waynhim from fire, thus imperilling your own life, dhraga spoke the word of command to this Demondim-spawn, ordering him to preserve you. Why did he not obey?”
The dark fluid salved Covenant's throat, but he still sounded harsh. “I already used the command. He killed six people.”
“Ah,” said Hamako. He turned from Covenant, and called down one of the entryways in a barking tongue. Almost immediately, a Waynhim entered the chamber. The creature sniffed inquiringly in Covenant's direction, then began a rapid conversation with Hamako. Their voices had a roynish sound that grated on Covenant's nerves-he had too many horrid memories of ur-viles- but he suppressed his discomfort, tried not to think balefully of Vain. Shortly, the Waynhim trotted away as if it carried important information. Hamako returned his attention to Covenant.
The man's gaze was full of questions as he said, “Then you came not upon this Demondim-spawn by chance. He did not seek you out without your knowledge.”
Covenant shook his head.
“He was given to you,” Hamako continued, “by those who know his purpose. You comprehend him.”
“No. I mean, yes, he was given to me. I was told how to command him. I was told to trust him.” He scowled at the idea of Vain's trustworthiness. “But nothing else.”
Hamako searched for the right way to phrase his question. “May I ask-who was the giver?”
Covenant felt reluctant to answer directly. He did not distrust Hamako; he simply did not want to discuss his experience with his Dead. So tie replied gruffly, “I was in Andelain.”
“Ah, Andelain,” Hamako breathed. “The Dead.” He nodded in comprehension, but it did not relieve his awkwardness.
Abruptly, Covenant's intuition leaped. “You know what his purpose is.” He had often heard that the lore of the Waynhim was wide and subtle. “But you're not going to tell me.”
Bamako's mouth twitched painfully. “Covenant,” he said, pleading to be understood, “the Dead were your friends, were they not? Their concern for you is ancient and far-seeing. It is sooth-the Waynhim ken much, and guess more. Doubtless there are many questions to which they hold answers. But-”
Covenant interrupted him. “You know how to fight the Sunbane, and you're not going to tell me that either.”
His tone made Hamako wince. "Surely your Dead have given to you all which may be wisely told. Ah, Thomas Covenant! My heart yearns to share with you the lore of the Waynhim. But they have instructed me strictly to forbear. For many reasons.
“They are ever loath to impart knowledge where they cannot control the use to which their knowledge is placed. For the ring-wielder, perhaps they would waive such considerations. But they have not the vision of the Dead, and fear to transgress the strictures which have guided the gifts of the Dead. This is the paradox of lore, that it must be achieved rather than granted, else it misleads. This only I am permitted to say: were I to reveal the purpose of this Demondim-spawn, that revelation could well prevent the accomplishment of his purpose.” Bamako's face held a look of supplication. “That purpose is greatly desirable.”
“At any rate, the ur-viles desire it greatly.” Frustration and weakness made Covenant sarcastic. “Maybe these Waynhim aren't as different as you think.”
He emptied the bowl, then tried to get to his feet. But Hamako held him back. Covenant had touched anger in the man. Stiffly, Hamako said, “I owe life and health and use to the succour of the Waynhim. Aye, and many things more. I will not betray their wishes to ease your mind, ring-wielder though you are.”
Covenant thrust against Hamako's grasp, but could not break free. After an effort like palsy, he collapsed back on the grass. “You said two days,” he panted. Futility enfeebled him. Two more days! “I've got to go. I'm already too far behind.”
“You have been deeply harmed,” Hamako replied. “Your flesh will not yet bear you. What urgency drives you?”
Covenant repressed a querulous retort. He could not denigrate Hamako's refusal to answer crucial questions; he had done such things himself. When he had mastered his gall, he said, “Three friends of mine were kidnapped by a Rider. They're on their way to Revelstone. If I don't catch up with them in time, they'll be killed.”
Hamako absorbed this information, then called again for one of the Waynhim. Another rapid conversation took place. Hamako seemed to be stressing something, urging something; the responses of the Waynhim sounded thoughtful, unpersuaded. But the creature ended on a note which satisfied Hamako. As the Waynhim departed, he turned back to Covenant.
“Durhisitar will consult the Weird of the Waynhim,” the man said, “but I doubt not that aid will be granted. No Waynhim will forget the redemption of dhraga — or the peril of the trap which ensnared you. Rest now, and fear not. This rhysh will accord you power to pursue your companions.”
“How? What can they do?”
Covenant could not resist. The grass exuded a somnolent air. His body was leaden with weariness; and the roborant he had drunk seemed to undermine his anxiety. He allowed Hamako to settle him upon the bed. But as the man prepared to leave, Covenant said distantly, “At least tell me how I ended up here. The last thing I remember”- he did not look at Vain — “I was as good as dead. How did you save me?”
Hamako sat on the edge of the bed. Once again, his countenance wore an awkward sympathy. “That I will relate,” he said. “But I must tell you openly that we did not save you.”
Covenant jerked up his head. “No?”
“Softly.” Hamako pushed him flat again. “There is no need for this concern.”
Grabbing the man's arms with both hands, Covenant pulled their faces together. “What the hell am I doing alive?”
“Covenant,” said Hamako with a dry smile, “how may I tell the tale if you are so upwrought?”
Slowly, Covenant released him. “All right.” Spectres crowded his head; but he forced himself to relax. “Tell it.”
“It came to pass thus,” the man said. "When dhraga Waynhim was set free by your hand, and learned that this Demondim-spawn would not obey the word of command, it desired you to share its flight. But it could not gain your comprehension. Therefore dhraga summoned all the haste which the harm to its body permitted, and sped to inform the rhysh of your plight. Dhraga had been made the bait of a snare. This snare-"
Covenant interrupted him. “What's a rhysh?”
"Ah, pardon me. For a score of turnings of the moon, I have heard no human voice but those warped by the Sunbane. I forget that you do not speak the Waynhim tongue.
“In our speech, the word rhysh means stead. It gives reference to a community of Waynhim. In all the Land, there are many hundred score Waynhim, but all live in rhysh of one or two score. Each rhysh is private unto itself-though I am told that communication exists between them. In the great war of Revelstone, nigh two score centuries past, five rhysh fought together against the ur-viles of the Despiser. But such sharing is rare. Each rhysh holds to itself and interprets the Weird in its own way. Long has this rhysh lived here, serving its own vision.”
Covenant wanted to ask the meaning of the term Weird; but he already regretted having halted Hamako's tale.
“The rhysh,” Hamako resumed, “was informed of your plight by dhraga. At once we set out to attempt your aid. But the distance was too great. When first dhraga was captured the decision was taken to make no rescue. It was bitter to all the rhysh to abandon one of its own. But we had cause to fear this snare. Long have we laboured all too near a strong number of those warped by the Sunbane.” Unexplained tears blurred his eyes. “Long have the ill souls that captured you striven to undo us. Therefore we believed the snare to be for us. Having no wish to slay or be slain, we abandoned dhraga to its doom.”
Covenant was struck by the closeness with which Hamako identified himself with the rhysh, and by the man's evident grief over the Sunbane victims. But he did not interrupt again.
“Also,” Hamako went on, suppressing his emotion, “for three days of desert sun prior to the setting of this snare, the Waynhim tasted Raver spoor.”
A Raver! Covenant groaned. Hellfire! That explained the trap. And the spider.
“Therefore we feared the snare deeply. But when we learned that the ring-wielder had fallen prey, we comprehended our error, and ran to succour you. But the distance,” he repeated, “was too great. We arrived only in time to behold the manner in which you redeemed yourself with wild magic.”
Redeemed-! An ache wrung Covenant's heart. No!
"Though your arm was terrible and black, your white ring spun a great fire. The bonds dropped from you. The wood was scattered. The Sunbane-warped were cast aside like chaff, and fled in terror. Rocks were riven from the escarpment. Only this Demondim-spawn stood scatheless amid the fire.
“The power ended as you fell. Perceiving your venom-ill, we bore you here, and the Waynhim tended you with all their cunning until your death receded from you. Here you are safe until your strength returns.”
Hamako fell silent. After studying Covenant for a moment, he rose to his feet and began to depart.
“The Raver?” Covenant gritted.
“All spoor of him is gone,” Hamako replied quietly. “I fear his purpose was accomplished.”
Or else he's afraid of me, Covenant rasped inwardly. He did not see Hamako leave the chamber. He was consumed by his thoughts. Damnation! First Marid, then the bees, now this. Each attack worse than the one before. And a Raver involved each time. Hell and blood! Why? Bile rose in him. Why else? Lord Foul did not want him dead, not if his ring might fall to a Raver. The Despiser wanted something entirely different. He wanted surrender, voluntary abdication. Therefore the purpose of these attacks lay in their effect on him, in the way they drew power from his delirium, violence over which he had no control.
No control!
Was Foul trying to scare him into giving up his ring?
God bloody damn it to hell! He had always felt an almost overwhelming distrust of power. In the past, he had reconciled himself to the might with which he had defeated Lord Foul only because he had refrained from making full use of it; rather than attempting to crush the Despiser utterly, he had withheld the final blow, though in so doing he had ensured that Lord Foul would rise to threaten the Land again. Deliberately, he had made himself culpable for Lord Foul's future ill. And he had chosen that course because the alternative was so much worse.
For he believed that Lord Foul was part of himself, an embodiment of the moral peril lurking for the outcast in the complex rage against being outcast, a leper's doom of Despite for everything including himself. Restraint was the only possible escape from such a doom. If he had allowed his power to rise unchecked, committed himself completely to wild magic in his battle against Lord Foul, he would have accomplished nothing but the feeding of his own inner Despiser. The part of him which judged, believed, affirmed, was the part which refrained. Utter power, boundless and unscrupulous rage, would have corrupted him, and he would have changed in one stroke from victim to victimizes He knew how easy it was for a man to become the thing he hated.
Therefore he profoundly feared his wild magic, his capacity for power and violence. And that was precisely the point of Foul's attack. The venom called up his might when he was beyond all restraint-called it up and increased it. In Mithil Stonedown, he had almost failed to light Sunder's orcrest; but two days ago he had apparently broken boulders. Without volition.
And still he did not know why. Perhaps in saving Joan, he had sold himself; perhaps he was no longer free. But no lack of freedom could force him to surrender. And every increase in his power improved his chances of besting the Despiser again.
His danger lay in the venom, the loss of restraint. But if he could avoid further relapses, learn control-He was a leper. Control and discipline were the tools of his life. Let Lord Foul consider that before he counted his victory.
With such thoughts, Covenant grew grim and calm. Slowly, the effects of his illness came over him. The scent of the grass soothed him like an anodyne. After a time, he slept.
When Hamako nudged him awake again, he had the impression that he had slept for a long time. Nothing in the chamber had changed; yet his instincts were sure. Groaning at the way everything conspired to increase the peril of his friends, he groped into a sitting position, “How many days have I lost now?”
Hamako placed a large bowl of the dark, musty liquid in Covenant's hands. “You have been among us for three days of the sun of pestilence,” he answered. “Dawn is not yet nigh, but I have awakened you because there is much I wish to show and say before you depart. Drink.”
Three days.
Terrific! Dismally, Covenant took a deep swallow from the bowl.
But as the liquid passed into him, he recognized the improvement in his condition. He held the bowl steadily: his whole body felt stable. He looked up at Hamako. To satisfy his curiosity, he asked, “What is this stuff?”
“It is vitrim.” Hamako was smiling: he seemed pleased by what he saw in Covenant. “It resembles an essence of aliantha, but has been created by the lore of the Waynhim rather than drawn, from the aliantha itself.”
In a long draught, Covenant drained the bowl, and felt immediately more substantial. He returned the bowl, and rose to his feet. “When can I get started? I'm running out of excuses.”
“Soon after the sun's rising, you will renew your sojourn,” answered Hamako. “I assure you that you will hold your days among us in scant regret.” He handed the bowl to a Waynhim standing nearby and accepted a leather pouch like a wineskin. This he gave to Covenant. “Vitrim,” he said. “If you consume it prudently, you will require no other aliment for three days.”
Covenant acknowledged the gift with a nod and tied the pouch to his belt by its drawstring. As he did so, Hamako said, “Thomas Covenant, it pains me that we have refused to answer your most urgent questions. Therefore I desire you to comprehend the Weird of the Waynhim ere you depart. Then perhaps you will grasp my conviction that their wisdom must be trusted. Are you willing?”
Covenant faced Hamako with a rueful grimace. “Hamako, you saved my life. I may be a natural-born ingrate, but I can still appreciate the significance of not being dead. I'll try to understand anything you want to tell me.” Half involuntarily, he added, “Just don't take too long. If I don't do something soon, I won't be able to live with myself.”
“Then come,” Hamako said, and strode out of the chamber.
Covenant paused to tuck in his shirt, then followed.
As he stooped to pass through the entryway, he noted sourly that Vain was right behind him.