The Wounded Land (13 page)

She accepted this as if it were just one more detail that defied rationality. “Well, what could have happened? What’s so important about hurtloam?”

He wanted to hide his head, conceal his pain; he felt too much exposed to the new penetration of her senses. “Hurtloam was a special mud that could heal—almost anything.” Twice, while in the Land, it had cured his leprosy. But he shied away from the whole subject of healing. If he told her what hurtloam had done for him in the past, he would also have to explain why it had not done him any lasting good. He would have to tell her that the Land was physically self-contained—that it had no tangible connection to their world. The healing of his chest meant nothing. When they regained consciousness, she would find that their bodily continuity in their world was complete. Everything would be the same.

If they did not awaken soon, she would not have time to treat his wound.

Because she was already under so much stress, he spared her that knowledge. Yet he could not contain his bitterness. “But that’s not the point. Look.” He pointed at the hearth. “Smoke. Ashes. The people I knew never built fires that destroyed wood. They didn’t have to. For them, everything around them—wood, water, stone, flesh—every part of the physical world—was full of what they called Earthpower. The power of life. They could raise fire—or make boats flow upstream—or send messages—by using the Earthpower in wood instead of the wood itself.

“That was what made them who they were. The Earthpower was the essence of the Land.” Memories thronged in him, visions of the Lords, of the masters of stone-and wood-lore. “It was so vital to them, so sustaining, that they gave their lives to it. Did everything they could to serve it, rather than exploit it. It was strength, sentience, passion.
Life
. A fire like this would have horrified them.”

But words were inadequate. He could not convey his longing for a world where aspen and granite, water and soil, nature itself, were understood, revered for their potency and loveliness. A world with a soul, deserving to be treasured. Linden gazed at him as if he were babbling. With a silent snarl, he gave up trying to explain. “Apparently,” he said, “they’ve lost it. It’s forgotten. Or dead. Now they have this Sunbane. If I understand what I’ve been hearing—which I doubt—the Sunbane was what kept Nassic’s torch burning in the rain. And he had to cut his hand to do it. And the wood was still consumed.

“He says the Sunbane is causing this rain.” Covenant shuddered involuntarily; firelight reflecting off the downpour beyond the entryway made the storm look vicious and intolerable.

Her eyes searched him. The bones of her face seemed to press against the skin, as if her skull itself protested against so many alien circumstances. “I don’t know anything about it. None of this makes sense.” She faltered. He could see fears crowding the edges of
her vision. “It’s all impossible. I can’t—” She shot a harried glance around the room, thrust her hands into her hair as though she sought to pull imminent hysteria off her features. “I’m going crazy.”

“I know.” He recognized her desperation. His own wildness when he was first taken to the Land had led him to commit the worst crimes of his life. He wanted to reach out to her, protect her; but the numbness of his hands prevented him. Instead, he said intensely, “Don’t give up. Ask questions. Keep trying. I’ll tell you everything I can.”

For a moment, her gaze ached toward him like the arms of an abandoned child. But then her hands bunched into fists. A grimace like a clench of intransigence knotted her mien. “Questions,” she breathed through her teeth. With a severe effort, she took hold of herself. “Yes.”

Her tone accused him as if he were to blame for her distress. But he accepted the responsibility. He could have prevented her from following him into the woods. If he had had the courage.

“All right,” she gritted. “You’ve been here before. What makes you so important? What did you do? Why does Foul want you? What’s an ur-Lord?”

Covenant sighed inwardly—an exhalation of relief at her determination to survive. That was what he wanted from her. A sudden weariness dimmed his sight; but he took no account of it.

“I was Berek reborn.”

The memory was not pleasant; it contained too much guilt, too much sorrow and harm. But he accepted it. “Berek was one of the ancient heroes—thousands of years before I came along. According to the legends, he discovered the Earthpower, and made the Staff of Law to wield it. All the lore of the Earthpower came down from him. He was the Lord-Fatherer, the founder of the Council of Lords. They led the defense of the Land against Foul.”

The Council, he groaned to himself, remembering Mhoram, Prothall, Elena. Hell and blood! His voice shook as he continued. “When I showed up, they welcomed me as a sort of avatar of Berek. He was known to have lost the last two fingers of his right hand in a war.” Linden’s gaze sharpened momentarily; but she did not interrupt. “So I was made an ur-Lord of the Council. Most of those other titles came later. After I defeated Foul.

“But Unbeliever was one I took for myself. For a long time here, I was sure I was dreaming, but I didn’t know what to do about it.” Sourly he muttered, “I was afraid to get involved. It had something to do with being a leper.” He hoped she would accept this non-explanation; he did not want to have to tell her about his crimes. “But I was wrong. As long as you have some idea of what’s happening to you, ‘real’ or ‘unreal’ doesn’t matter. You have to stand up for what you care about; if you don’t, you lose control of who you are.” He paused, met her scrutiny so that she could see the clarity of his conviction. “I ended up caring about the Land a lot.”

“Because of the Earthpower?”

“Yes.” Pangs of loss stung his heart. Fatigue and strain had shorn him of his defenses. “The land was incredibly beautiful. And the way the people loved it, served it—that was beautiful, too. Lepers,” he concluded mordantly, “are susceptible to beauty.” In her own way, Linden seemed beautiful to him.

She listened to him like a physician trying to diagnose a rare disease. When he stopped, she said, “You called yourself, ‘Unbeliever and white gold wielder.’ What does white gold have to do with it?”

He scowled involuntarily. To cover his pain, he lowered himself to the floor, sat against the wall of the hearth. That question touched him deeply, and he was too tired to give it the courage it deserved. But her need for knowledge was peremptory. “My wedding ring,” he murmured. “When Joan divorced me, I was never able to stop wearing it. I was a leper—I felt that I’d lost everything. I thought my only link with the human race was the fact that I used to be married.

“But here it’s some kind of talisman. A tool for what they call wild magic—‘the wild magic that destroys peace.’ I can’t explain it.” To himself, he cursed the paucity of his valor.

Linden sat down near him, kept watching his face. “You think I can’t handle the truth.”

He winced at her percipience. “I don’t know. But I know how hard it is. It sure as hell isn’t easy for me.”

Outside, the rain beat with steady ire into the valley; thunder and lightning pummeled each other among the mountains. But inside the hut the air was warm, tinged with smoke like a faint soporific. And he had gone for many days without rest. He closed his eyes, partly to acknowledge his exhaustion, partly to gain a respite from Linden’s probing.

But she was not finished. “Nassic—” Her voice was as direct as if she had reached out and touched him. “He’s crazy.”

With an effort of will, Covenant forced himself to ask, “What makes you say that?”

She was silent until he opened his eyes, looked at her. Then, defensively, she said, “I can feel it—the imbalance in him. Can’t you? It’s in his face, his voice, everything. I saw it right away. When he was coming down the ravine.”

Grimly he put off his fatigue. “What are you trying to tell me? That we can’t trust him? Can’t believe him?”

“Maybe.” Now she could not meet his gaze. She studied the clasp of her hands on her knees. “I’m not sure. All I know is, he’s demented. He’s been lonely too long. And he believes what he says.”

“He’s not the only one,” Covenant muttered. Deliberately he stretched out to make himself more comfortable. He was too tired to worry about Nassic’s sanity. But he owed Linden one other answer. Before he let go of himself, he replied, “No, I can’t.”

As weariness washed over him, he was dimly aware that she stood up and began to pace beside his recumbent form.

He was awakened by silence. The rain had stopped. For a moment, he remained still, enjoying the end of the storm. The rest had done him good; he felt stronger, more capable.

When he raised his head, he saw Linden in the entryway, facing the vale and the clear cool night. Her shoulders were tense; strain marked the way she leaned against the stone. As he got to his feet, she turned toward him. She must have replenished the fire while he slept. The room was bright; he could see her face clearly. The corners of her eyes were lined as if she had been squinting for a long time at something which discomfited her.

“It stopped at nightfall.” She indicated the absence of rain with a jerk of her head. “He was right about that.”

The trouble in her worried him. He tried to sound casual as he asked, “What have you been thinking?”

She shrugged. “Nothing new. ‘Face it. Go forward. Find out what happens.’ ” Her gaze was bent inward on memories. “I’ve been living that way for years. It’s the only way to find out how much what you’re trying to get away from costs.”

He searched her for some glimpse of what she meant. “You know,” he said slowly, “you haven’t told me much about yourself.”

She stiffened, drew severity across her countenance like a shield. Her tone denied his question. “Nassic isn’t back yet.”

For a moment, he considered her refusal. Did she have that much past hurt to hide? Were her defenses aimed at him, or at herself? But then the import of her words penetrated him. “He isn’t?” Even an old man should have been able to make the trip twice in this amount of time.

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Damnation!” Covenant’s throat was suddenly dry. “What the hell happened to him?”

“How should I know?” Her ire betrayed the fraying of her nerves. “Remember me? I’m the one who hasn’t been here before.”

He wanted to snap at her; but he held himself back grimly. “I didn’t mean it that way. Maybe he fell off the cliff. Maybe Mithil Stonedown is even more dangerous than he thought. Maybe he doesn’t even have a son.”

He could see her swallowing her vexation, wishing herself immune to pressure. “What are we going to do?”

“What choice have we got? We have to go down there ourselves.” Sternly he compelled himself to face her doubt of Nassic. “It’s hard for me to believe we can’t trust those people. They were my friends when I didn’t deserve to have any friends.”

She considered him. “That was three thousand years ago.”

Yes, he muttered bleakly. And he had given them little in return except harm. If they remembered him at all, they would be justified in remembering only the harm.

With a sudden nausea, he realized that he was going to have to tell Linden what he had done to Mithil Stonedown, to Lena Atiaran-daughter. The doctor was the first woman he had met in ten years who was not afraid of him. And she had tried to save his life. What other protection could he give her against himself?

He lacked the courage. The words were in his mind, but he could not utter them. To escape her eyes, he moved abruptly past her out of Nassic’s stone dwelling.

The night was a vault of crystal. All the clouds were gone. The air was cold and sharp; and stars glittered like flecks of joy across the immaculate deeps. They gave some visibility. Below the dark crouch of the peaks, he could see the stream flowing turgidly down the length of the dell. He followed it; he remembered this part of the way well enough. But then he slowed his pace as he realized that Linden was not behind him.

“Covenant!”

Her cry scaled the night. Echoes repeated against the mountainsides.

He went back to her at a wild run.

She knelt on a pile of rubble like a cairn beside the hut—the broken remains of Nassic’s temple, fallen into desuetude. She was examining a dark form which lay strangely atop the debris.

Covenant sprang forward, peered at the body.

Bloody hell, he moaned. Nassic.

The old man lay embracing the ruins. From the center of his back protruded the handle of a knife.

“Don’t touch that,” Linden panted. “It’s still hot.” Her mouth was full of crushed horror.

Still—? Covenant kicked aside his dismay. “Take his legs. We’ll carry him into the house.”

She did not move. She looked small and abject in the night.

To make her move, he lashed at her, “I told you it was dangerous. Did you think I was kidding? Take his legs!”

Her voice was a still cold articulation of darkness. “He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.”

The sound of her desolation choked his protests. For one keening moment, he feared that he had lost her—that her mind had gone over the edge. But then she shifted. Her hair fell forward, hid her face, as she bent to slip her arms under Nassic’s legs.

Covenant lifted him by the shoulders. Together they bore him into his house.

He was already stiff.

They set him down gently in the center of the floor. Covenant inspected him. His skin was cold. There was no blood in his robe around the knife; it must have been washed away by the rain. He must have lain dead in the rain for a long time.

Linden did not watch. Her eyes clinched the black iron knife. “It didn’t kill him right away,” she said hoarsely. “It didn’t hit him right. He bled to death.” The bones of her face seemed to throb with vehemence. “This is evil.”

The way she uttered that word
evil
sent cold fear scrabbling down Covenant’s spine. He knew what she meant; he had formerly been able to perceive such things himself. She was looking at the cruelty of the hand which had held that knife, seeing the eager malice which had inspired the blow. And if the iron were still hot—He swallowed harshly. Nassic’s killer must have been someone of great and brutal power.