The Wounded Land (12 page)

“Covenant,” Linden breathed suddenly. “His hand. Look.”

Water dripped from the old man; water ran from them all. But the drops falling from the butt of the torch were red.

“Ur-Lord!” The man plunged to his knees. “I am unworthy.” He quivered with dismay. “I have trafficked in the knowledge of the wicked, gaining power against the Sunbane from those who scorn the promises I have sworn to preserve. Ah, spare me! I am shamed.” He dropped his brand, opened his left hand to Covenant.

The torch went out the instant he released it. As it struck the floor, it fell into ash.

Across his palm lay two long cuts. Blood ran from them as if it could not stop.

Covenant flinched. Thunder muttered angrily to itself in the distance. Nothing was left of the torch except ash. It had been held
together, kept whole and burning, only by the power the old man had put into it. The power of his blood?

Covenant’s brain reeled. A sudden memory of Joan stung him—Joan clawing the back of his hand, licking his fingers. Vertigo reft him of balance. He sat down heavily, slumped against the nearest wall. The rain echoed in his ears. Blood?
Blood?

Linden was examining the old man’s hand. She turned it to the firelight, spread the fingers; her grip on his wrist slowed the flow of blood. “It’s clean.” Her voice was flat, impersonal. “Needs a bandage to stop the bleeding. But there’s no infection.”

No infection, Covenant breathed. His thoughts limped like cripples. “How can you tell?”

She was concentrating on the wound. “What?”

He labored to say what he meant. “How can you tell there’s no infection?”

“I don’t know.” His question seemed to trigger surprise in her. “I can see it. I can see”—her astonishment mounted—“the pain. But it’s clean. How—? Can’t you?”

He shook his head. She confirmed his earlier impression; her senses were already becoming attuned to the Land.

His were not. He was blind to everything not written on the surface. Why? He closed his eyes. Old rue throbbed in him. He had forgotten that numbness could hurt so much.

After a moment, she moved; he could hear her searching around the room. When she returned to the old man’s side, she was tearing a piece of cloth to form bandages.

You will not fail
— Covenant felt that he had already been given up for lost. The thought was salt to his sore heart.

Smoke? Blood?
There’s only one way to hurt a man. Give him back something broken
. Damnation.

But the old man demanded his attention. The man had bowed his wet gray head to the stone. His hands groped to touch Covenant’s boots. “Ur-Lord,” he moaned, “Ur-Lord. At last you have come. The Land is saved.”

That obeisance pulled Covenant out of his inner gyre. He could not afford to be overwhelmed by ignorance or loss. And he could not bear to be treated as if he were some kind of savior; he could not live with such an image of himself. He climbed erect, then took hold of the old man’s arms and drew him to his feet.

The man’s eyes rolled fearfully, gleaming in the firelight. To reassure him, Covenant spoke evenly, quietly.

“Tell me your name.”

“I am Nassic son of Jous son of Prassan,” the old man replied in a fumbling voice. “Descended in direct lineage son by son from the Unfettered One.”

Covenant winced. The Unfettered Ones he had known were hermits freed from all normal responsibilities so that they could pursue their private visions. An Unfettered One had once saved his life—and died. Another had read his dreams—and told him that he dreamed the truth. He took a stringent grip on himself. “What was his calling?”

“Ur-Lord, he saw your return. Therefore he came to this place—to the vale below Kevin’s Watch, which was given its name in an age so long past that none remember its meaning.”

Briefly Nassic’s tone stabilized, as if he were reciting something he had memorized long ago. “He built the temple as a place of welcome for you, and a place of healing, for it was not forgotten among the people of those years that your own world is one of great hazard and
strife, inflicting harm even upon its heroes. In his vision, he beheld the severe doom of the Sunbane, though to him it was nameless as nightmare, and he foresaw that the Unbeliever, ur-Lord Illender, Prover of Life, would return to combat it. From son to son he handed down his vision, faith un—”

Then he faltered. “Ah, shame,” he muttered. “Temple—faith—healing—Land. All ruins.” But indignation stiffened him. “Fools will cry for mercy. They deserve only retribution. For lo! The Unbeliever has come. Let the Clave and all its works wail to be spared. Let the very sun tremble in its course! It will avail them nothing! Woe unto you, wicked and abominable! The—”

“Nassic.” Covenant forced the old man to stop. Linden was watching them keenly. Questions crowded her face; but Covenant ignored them. “Nassic,” he asked of the man’s white stare, “what is this Sunbane?”

“Sunbane?” Nassic lost his fear in amazement. “Do you ask—? How can you not—?” His hands tugged at his beard. “Why else have you come?”

Covenant tightened his grip. “Just tell me what it is.”

“It is—why, it is—yes, it—” Nassic stumbled to a halt, then cried in a sudden appeal, “Ur-Lord, what is it not? It is sun and rain and blood and desert and fear and the screaming of trees.” He squirmed with renewed abasement. “It was—it was the fire of my torch. Ur-Lord!” Misery clenched his face like a fist. He tried to drop to his knees again.

“Nassic.” Covenant held him erect, hunted for some way to reassure him. “We’re not going to harm you. Can’t you see that?” Then another thought occurred to him. Remembering Linden’s injury, his own bruises, he said, “Your hand’s still bleeding. We’ve both been hurt. And I—” He almost said, I can’t see what she sees. But the words stuck in his throat. “I’ve been away for a long time. Do you have any hurtloam?”

Hurtloam? Linden’s expression asked.

“Hurtloam?” queried Nassic. “What is hurtloam?”

What is—? Distress lurched across Covenant’s features. What—? Shouts flared in him like screams, Hurtloam! Earthpower!
Life!
“Hurtloam,” he rasped savagely.
“The mud that heals.”
His grasp shook Nassic’s frail bones.

“Forgive me, Ur-Lord. Be not angry. I—”

“It was here! In this valley!” Lena had healed him with it.

Nassic found a moment of dignity. “I know nothing of hurtloam. I am an old man, and have never heard the name spoken.”

“Damnation!” Covenant spat. “Next you’re going to tell me you’ve never heard of Earthpower!”

The old man sagged. “Earthpower?” he breathed. “Earthpower?”

Covenant’s hands ground his giddy dismay into Nassic’s thin arms. But Linden was at his side, trying to loosen his grip. “Covenant! He’s telling the truth!”

Covenant jerked his gaze like a whip to her face.

Her lips were tight with strain, but she did not let herself flinch. “He doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

She silenced him. He believed her; she could hear the truth in Nassic’s voice, just as she could see the lack of infection in his cuts. No hurtloam? He bled inwardly. Forgotten?
Lost?
Images of desecration poured through him. Have mercy. The Land without hurtloam. Without Earthpower? The weight of Nassic’s revelation was too much for him. He sank to the floor like an invalid.

Linden stood over him. She was groping for decision, insight; but he could not help her. After a moment, she said, “Nassic.” Her tone was severe. “Do you have any food?”

“Food?” he replied as if she had reminded him of his inadequacy. “Yes. No. It is unworthy.”

“We need food.”

Her statement brooked no argument. Nassic bowed, went at once to the opposite wall, where he began lifting down crude bowls and pots from the shelves.

Linden came to Covenant, knelt in front of him. “What is it?” she asked tightly. He could not keep the despair out of his face. “What’s wrong?”

He did not want to answer. He had spent too many years in the isolation of his leprosy; her desire to understand him only aggravated his pain. He could not bear to be so exposed. Yet he could not refuse the demand of her hard mouth, her soft eyes. Her life was at issue as much as his. He made an effort of will. “Later.” His voice ached through his teeth. “I need time to think about it.”

Her jaws locked; darkness wounded her eyes. He looked away, so that he would not be led to speak before he had regained his self-mastery.

Shortly Nassic brought bowls of dried meat, fruit, and unleavened bread, which he offered tentatively, as if he knew they deserved to be rejected. Linden accepted hers with a difficult smile; but Nassic did not move until Covenant had mustered the strength to nod his approval. Then the old man took pots and collected rainwater for them to drink.

Covenant stared blindly at his food without tasting it. He seemed to have no reason to bother feeding himself. Yet he knew that was not true; in fact, he was foundering in reasons. But the impossibility of doing justice to them all made his resolution falter. Had he really sold his soul to the Despiser—?

But he was a leper; he had spent long years learning the answer to his helplessness. Leprosy was incurable. Therefore lepers disciplined themselves to pay meticulous attention to their immediate needs. They ignored the abstract immensity of their burdens, concentrated instead on the present, moment by moment. He clung to that pragmatic wisdom. He had no other answer.

Numbly he put a piece of fruit in his mouth, began to chew.

After that, habit and hunger came to his aid. Perhaps his answer was not a good one; but it defined him, and he stood by it.

Stood or fell, he did not know which.

Nassic waited humbly, solicitously, while Covenant and Linden ate; but as soon as they finished, he said, “Ur-Lord.” He sounded eager. “I am your servant. It is the purpose in my life to serve you, as it was the purpose of Jous my father and Prassan his father throughout the long line of the Unfettered.” He seemed unmindful of the quaver in his words. “You are not come too soon. The Sunbane multiplies in the Land. What will you do?”

Covenant sighed. He felt unready to deal with such questions. But the ritual of eating had steadied him. And both Nassic and Linden deserved some kind of reply. Slowly he said, “We’ll have to go to Revelstone—” He spoke the name hesitantly. Would Nassic recognize it? If there were no more Lords—Perhaps Revelstone no longer existed. Or perhaps all the names had changed. Enough time had passed for anything to happen.

But Nassic crowed immediately, “Yes! Vengeance upon the Clave! It is good!”

The Clave? Covenant wondered. But he did not ask. Instead, he tested another familiar name. “But first we’ll have to go to Mithil Stonedown—”

“No!” the man interrupted. His vehemence turned at once into protest and trepidation. “You must not. They are wicked—wicked! Worshippers of the Sunbane. They say that they abhor the Clave, but they do not. Their fields are sown with blood!”

Blood again; Sunbane; the Clave. Too many things he did not know. He concentrated on what he was trying to ascertain. Apparently the names he remembered were known to Nassic in spite of their age. That ended his one dim hope concerning the fate of the Earthpower. A new surge of futility beat at him. How could he possibly fight Lord Foul if there were no Earthpower? No, worse—if there were no Earthpower, what was left to fight for?

But Nassic’s distraught stare and Linden’s clenched, arduous silence demanded responses. Grimacing he thrust down his sense of futility. He was intimately acquainted with hopelessness, impossibility, gall; he knew how to limit their power over him.

He took a deep breath and said, “There’s no other way. We can’t get out of here without going through Mithil Stonedown.”

“Ah, true,” the old man groaned. “That is true.” He seemed almost desperate. “Yet you must not—They are wicked! They harken to the words of the Clave—words of abomination. They mock all old promises, saying that the Unbeliever is a madness in the minds of the Unfettered. You must not go there.”

“Then how—?” Covenant frowned grimly. What’s happened to them? I used to have friends there.

Abruptly Nassic reached a decision. “I will go. To my son. His name is Sunder. He is wicked, like the rest. But he is my son. He comes to me when the mood is upon him, and I speak to him, telling him what is proper to his calling. He is not altogether corrupted. He will aid us to pass by the Stonedown. Yes.” At once, he threw himself toward the entryway.

“Wait!” Covenant jumped to his feet. Linden joined him.

“I must go!” cried Nassic urgently.

“Wait until the rain stops.” Covenant pleaded against the frenzy in Nassic’s eyes. The man looked too decrepit to endure any more exposure. “We’re not in that much of a hurry.”

“It will not halt until nightfall. I must make haste!”

“Then at least take a torch!”

Nassic flinched as if he had been scourged. “Ah, you shame me! I know the path. I must redeem my doubt.” Before Covenant or Linden could stop him, he ran out into the rain.

Linden started after nun; but Covenant stayed her. Lightning blazed overhead. In the glare, they saw Nassic stumbling frenetically toward the end of the dell. Then thunder and blackness hit, and he disappeared as if he had been snuffed out. “Let him go,” sighed Covenant. “If we chase him, we’ll probably fall off a cliff somewhere.” He held her until she nodded. Then he returned wearily to the fire.

She followed him. When he placed his back to the hearth, she confronted him. The dampness of her hair darkened her face, intensifying the lines between her brows, on either side of her mouth. He expected anger, protest, some outburst against the insanity of her situation. But when she spoke, her voice was flat, controlled.

“This isn’t what you expected.”

“No.” He cursed himself because he could not rise above his dismay. “No. Something terrible has happened,”

She did not waver. “How can that be? You said the last time you were here was ten years ago. What can happen in ten years?”

Her query reminded him that he had not yet told her about Lord Foul’s prophecy. But now was not the time: she was suffering from too many other incomprehensions. “Ten years in our world.” For her sake, he did not say,
the real world
. “Time is different here. It’s faster—the way dreams are almost instantaneous sometimes. I’ve—” He had difficulty meeting her stare; even his knowledge felt like shame. “I’ve actually been here three times before. Each time, I was unconscious for a few hours, and months went by here. So ten years for me—Oh, bloody hell!” The Despiser had said,
For a score of centuries. For nearly as many centuries more
. “If the ratio stays the same, we’re talking about three or four thousand years.”