The 1st Chronicles of Thomas Covenant #2: The Illearth War (12 page)

Covenant made an effort to match her, but his voice quavered as he said, “It won’t make any difference. It won’t do you any good. Foul’s got all the power that counts.”

“He does not possess the white gold.”

“To hell with the white gold!”

“No!” she retorted vehemently. “Do not say such a thing. I have not lived my life for nothing. My mother, and her mother before her, have not lived for nothing!”

He did not understand her, but her sudden passion silenced him. He felt trapped between her and the krill; he did not know what to say or do. Helpless, he stared at the High Lord as her own emotions grew into speech.

“You say that this makes no difference-that it does no good. Are you a prophet?

And if you are, what do you say that we should do? Surrender?” For an instant, her self-possession wavered, and she exclaimed furiously, “Never!” He thought that he heard hatred in her words. But then she lowered her voice, and the sound of loathing faded.

“No! There is no one in the Land who could endure to stand aside and allow the Despiser to work his will. H we must suffer and die without hope, then we will do so. But we will not despair, though it is the Unbeliever himself who says that we must”

Useless emotions writhed across his face, but he could not answer. His own conviction or energy had fallen into dust. Even the pain in his hand was almost gone. He looked away from her, then winced at the sharp sight of the krill. Slowly, as if he had aged in the past few moments, he lowered himself into a chair. “I wish,” he murmured blankly, emptily, “I wish I knew what to do.”

At the edge of his attention, he was aware that Elena had left the room. But he did not raise his head until she returned and stood before him. In her hands she held a flask of springwine which she offered to him.

He could see a concern he did not deserve in the complex otherness of her gaze.

He accepted the flask and drank deeply, searching for a balm to ease the splitting ache in his forehead and for some way to support his failing courage. He dreaded the High Lord’s intentions, whatever they were. She was too sympathetic, too tolerant of his violence; she allowed him too much leeway without setting him free. Despite the solidness of Revelstone under his sensitive feet, he was on unsteady ground.

When after a short silence she spoke again, she had an air of bringing herself to the point of some difficult honesty; but there was nothing candid in the unexplained disfocus of her eyes. “I am lost in this matter,” she said. “There is much that I must tell you, if I am to be open and blameless. I do not wish to be reproached with any lack of knowledge in you-the Land will not be served by any concealment which might later be called by another name. Yet my courage fails me, and I know not what words to use.

Mhoram offered to take this matter from me, and I refused, believing that the burden is mine. Yet now I am lost, and cannot begin.”

Covenant bent his frown toward her, refusing with the pain in his forehead to give her any aid.

“You have spoken with Hile Troy,” she said tentatively, unsure of this approach.

“Did he describe his coming to the Land?”

Covenant nodded without relenting. “An accident. Some misbegotten kid-a young student, he says-was trying to get me.”

Elena moved as if she meant to pursue that idea, but then she stopped herself, reconsidered, and took a different tack. “I do not know your world-but the Warmark tells me that such things do not happen there. Have you observed Lord Mhoram? Or Hiltmark Quaan? Or perhaps Hearthrall Tohrm? Any of those you knew forty years ago? Does it appear to you that-that they are young?”

“I’ve noticed.” Her question agitated him. He had been clinging to the question of age, trying to establish it as a discrepancy, a breakdown in the continuity of his delusion.

“It doesn’t fit. Mhoram and Tohrm are too young. It’s impossible. They are not forty years older.”

“I also am young,” she said intently, as if she were trying to help him guess a secret. But at the sight of his glowering incomprehension, she retreated from the plunge.

To answer him, she said, “This has been true for as long as there has been such lore in the Land. The Old Lords lived to great age. They were not long-lived as the Giants are-because that is the natural span of their people. No, it was the service of the Earthpower which preserved’ them, secured them from age long past their normal years. High Lord Kevin lived centuries as people live decades.

“So, too, it is in this present time, though in a lesser way. We do not bring out all the potency of the Lore. And the Warlore does not preserve its followers, so Quaan and his warriors alone of your former comrades carry their full burden of years. But those of the rhadhamaerl and the lillianrill, and the Lords who follow Kevin’s Lore, age more slowly than others. This is a great boon, for it extends our strength. But also it causes grief — ”

She fell silent for a moment, sighed quietly to herself as if she were remembering an old injury. But when she spoke again, her voice was clear and steady. “So it has always been. Lord Mhoram has seen ten times seven summers-yet he hardly carries fifty of them. And — ” Once again, she stopped herself and changed directions. With a look that searched Covenant, she said, “Does it surprise you to hear that I rode a Ranyhyn as a child? There is no other in the Land who .has had such good fortune.”

He finished his springwine, and got to his feet to pace the room in front of her.

The tone in which she recurred to the Ranyhyn was full of suggestions; he sensed wide possibilities of distress in it. More in anxiety than in irritation, he growled at her,

“Hellfire. Get on with it.”

She tensed as if in preparation for a struggle, and said, “Warmark Hile Troy’s account of his summoning to the Land may not have been altogether accurate. I have heard him tell his tale, and he confuses something which I-we-have not thought it well to correct. We have kept this matter secret between us.

“Ur-Lord Covenant.” She paused, steadying herself, then said carefully, “Hile Troy was summoned by no young student, ignorant of the perils of power. The summoner was one whom you have known.”

Triock! Covenant almost missed his footing. Triock son of Thuler, of Mithil Stonedown, had reason to hate the Unbeliever. He had loved Lena-but Covenant could not bear to say that name aloud. Squirming at his cowardice, he avoided Triock by saying, “Pietten. That poor kid-from Soaring Woodhelven. The ur-viles did something to him. Was it him?” He did not dare to meet the High Lord’s eyes.

“No, Thomas Covenant,” she said gently. “It was no man. You knew her well. She was Atiaran Trellmate-she who guided you from Mithil Stonedown to your meeting with Saltheart Foamfollower at the Soulsease River.”

“Hellfire!” he groaned. At the sound of her name, he saw in his mind Atiaran’s spacious eyes, saw the courage with which she had denied her passion against him in order to serve the Land. And he caught a quick visionary image of her face as she incinerated herself trying to summon him-entranced, bitter, livid with the conflagration of all the inner truces which he had so severely harmed. “Ah, hell,” he breathed. “Why? She needed-she needed to forget.”

“She could not. Atiaran Trell-mate returned to the Loresraat in her old age for many reasons, but two were uppermost. She desired to bring-no, desire is too small a word. She hungered for you. She could not forget. But whether she wanted you for the Land, or for herself, I do not know. She was a torn woman, and it is in my heart that both hungers warred in her to the last. How otherwise? She said that you permitted the ravage of the Celebration of Spring, though my mother taught me a different tale.”

No! moaned Covenant, pacing bent as if borne down by the weight of the darkness on his forehead. Oh, Atiaran!

“Her second reason touches on the grief of long years and extended strength. For her husband was Trell, Gravelingas of the rhadhamaerl. Their marriage was brave and glad in the memory of Mithil Stonedown, for though she had surpassed her strength during her youth in the Loresraat, and had left in weakness, yet was she strong enough to stand with Trell her husband.

“But her weakness, her self-distrust, remained. The grave test of her life came and passed, and she grew old. And to the pain you gave her was added another; she aged, and Trell Atiaran-mate did not. His lore sustained him beyond his years. So after so much hurt she began to lose her husband as well, though his love was steadfast. She was his wife, yet she became old enough to be his mother.

“So she returned to the Loresraat, in grief and pain-and in devotion, for though she doubted herself, her love for the Land did not waver. Yet at the last ill came upon her.

Fleeing the restraint of the Lorewardens, she wrought death upon herself. In that way, she broke her Oath of Peace, and ended her life in despair.”

No! he protested. But he remembered Atiaran’s anguish, and the price she had paid to repress it, and the wrong he had done her. He feared that Elena was right.

In a sterner voice that did not appear to match her words, the High Lord continued, “After her death, Trell came to Revelstone. He is one of the mightiest of all the rhadhamaerl, and he remains here, giving his skill and lore to the defense of the Land.

But he knows bitterness, and I fear that his Oath rests uneasily upon him. For all his gentleness, he has been too much made helpless. It is in my heart that he does not forgive.

There was no aid he could give Atiaran -or my mother.”

Through the ache of his memories, Covenant wanted to protest that Trell, with his broad shoulders and his strange power, knew nothing about the true nature of helplessness. But this objection was choked off by the grip of Elena’s voice as she said, my mother. He stood still, bent as if he were about to capsize, and waited for the last unutterable blackness to fall on him.

“So you must understand why I rode a Ranyhyn as a child. Every year at the last full moon before the middle night of spring, a Ranyhyn came to Mithil Stonedown. My mother understood at once that this was a gift from you. And she shared it with me. It was so easy for her to forget that you had hurt her. Did I not tell you that I also am young? I am Elena daughter of Lena daughter of Atiaran Trell-mate. Lena my mother remains in Mithil Stonedown, for she insists that you will return to her.”

For one more moment, he stood still, staring at the pattern woven into the shoulders of her shift. Then a flood of revelations crashed through him, and he understood. He stumbled, dropped into a chair as suddenly as if his spine had broken. His stomach churned, and he gagged, trying to heave up his emptiness.

“I’m sorry.” The words burst between his teeth as if torn out of his chest by a hard fist of contrition. They were as inadequate as stillborns, too dead to express what he felt.

But he could do nothing else. “Oh, Lena! I’m sorry.” He wanted to weep, but he was a leper, and had forgotten how.

“I was impotent.” He forced the jagged confession through his sore throat. “I forgot what it’s like. Then we were alone. And I felt like a man again, but I knew it wasn’t true, it was false, I was dreaming, had to be, it couldn’t happen any other way. It was too much. I couldn’t stand it.”

“Do not speak to me of impotence,” she returned tightly. “I am the High Lord. I must defeat the Despiser using arrows and swords.” Her tone was harsh; he could hear other words running through it, as if she were saying, Do you think that mere explanation or apology is sufficient reparation? And without the diseased numbness which justified him, he could not argue.

“No,” he said in a shaking voice. “Nothing suffices.”

Slowly, heavily, he raised his head and looked at her. Now he could see in her the sixteen-year-old child he had known, her mother. That was her hidden familiarity. She had her mother’s hair, her mother’s figure. Behind her discipline, her face was much like her mother’s. And she wore the same white leaf-pattern woven into the cloth at her shoulders which Lena had worn-the pattern of Trell’s and Atiaran’s family.

When he met her eyes, he saw that they, too, were like Lena’s. They glowed with something that was neither anger nor condemnation; they seemed to contradict the judgment he had heard a moment earlier.

“What are you going to do now?” he said weakly. “Atiaran wanted-wanted the Lords to punish me.”

Abruptly, she left her seat, moved around behind him. She put her hands tenderly on his clenched brow and began to rub it, seeking to stroke away the knots and furrows.

“Ah, Thomas Covenant,” she sighed, with something like yearning in her voice. “I am the High Lord. I bear the Staff of Law. I fight for the r Land, and will not quail though the beauty may die, or I may die, or the world may die. But there is much of Lena my mother in me. Do not frown at me so. I cannot bear it.”

Her soft, cool, consoling touch seemed to burn his forehead. Mhoram had said that she had sat with him .’ during his ordeal the previous night-sat, and watched over him, and held his hand. Trembling, he got to his feet. Now he knew why she had summoned him. There was a world of implications in the air between them; her whole life was on his head, for good or ill. But it was too much; he was too staggered and drained to grasp it all, deal with it. His stiff face was only capable of grimaces. Mutely, he left her, and Bannor guided him back to his rooms.

In his suite, he extinguished the torches, covered the graveling pots. Then he went out onto his balcony.

The moon was rising over Revelstone. It was still new, and it came in silver over the horizon, tinting the plains with unviolated luminescence. He breathed the autumn air, and leaned on the railing, immune for-: the moment from vertigo. Even that had been drained out of him.

He did not think about jumping. He thought about m how difficult Elena was to refuse.

SEVEN: Korik’s Mission

SOMETIME before dawn, an insistent pounding at his door woke him. He had been dreaming about the Quest for the Staff of Law-about his friend, Saltheart Foamfollower, whom the company of the Quest had left behind to guard their rear before they had entered the catacombs of Mount Thunder. Covenant had not seen him again, did not know whether the Giant had survived that perilous duty. When he awoke, his heart was laboring as if the clamor at the door were the beating of his dread.