The Wounded Land (34 page)

No choice at all. Until they learned to believe that the Sunbane was not the whole truth of their lives. Until Covenant found an answer which could set them free.

He was prepared to spend everything he possessed, everything he was, to open the way for Sunder, and Hollian, and Linden to walk Andelain unafraid.

Through the day, he journeyed without rest. He did not need rest. The
aliantha
healed the effects of the venom, and the water in the cleanly streams made him feel as fresh as a newborn; and each new vista was itself a form of sustenance, vivid and delicious.

The sun set in splendor long before he was ready to stop. He could not stop. He went on, always northeastward, until the gloaming became night, and the stars came smiling out of their celestial deeps to keep him company.

But the darkness was still young when he was halted by the sight of a faint yellow-orange light, flickering through the trees like a blade of fire. He did not seek to approach it; memories held him still. He stood hushed and reverent while the flame wandered toward him. And as it came, it made a fine clear tinkling sound, like the chime of delicate crystal.

Then it bobbed in the air before him, and he bowed low to it, for it was one of the Wraiths of Andelain—a flame no larger than his hand dancing upright as if the darkness were an invisible wick. Its movement
matched his obeisance; and when it floated slowly away from him, he followed after it. Its luster made his heart swell. Toward the Wraiths of Andelain he felt a keen grief which he would have given anything to relieve. At one time, scores of them had died because he had lacked the power to save them.

Soon this Wraith was joined by another—and then by still others—and then he was surrounded by dancing as he walked. The bright circle and high, light ringing of the flames guided him, so that he went on and on as if he knew his way until a slim sliver-moon rose above the eastern Hills.

Thus the Wraiths brought him to a tall knoll, bare of trees but opulently grassed. There the chiming faded into a stronger music. The very air became the song to which the stars measured out then— gavotte, and every blade of grass was a note in the harmony. It was a stern song behind its quietude, and it held a long sorrow which he understood. The Wraiths remained at the base of the knoll, forming a long ring around it; but the music carried him upward, toward the crest.

And then the song took on words, so distinct that they could never be forgotten. They were sad and resolute, and he might have wept at them if he had been less entranced.

Slowly through the music, Covenant beheld the singer.

The man was tall and strong, and robed all in whitest sendaline. In his hand, he held a gnarled tree limb as a staff. Melody crowned his head. Music flowed from the lines of his form in streams of phosphorescence. His song was the very stuff of power, and with it he cupped the night in the palm of his hand.

His face had neither eyes nor eye sockets. Though he had changed mightily in the ten years or thirty-five centuries since Covenant had last seen him, he did not appear to have aged at all.

An impulse to kneel swept through Covenant, but he refused it. He sensed that if he knelt now there would be no end to his need to prostrate himself. Instead, he stood quiet before the man’s immense white music, and waited.

After a moment, the man hummed sternly, “Thomas Covenant, do you know me?”

Covenant met his eyeless gaze. “You’re Hile Troy.”

“No.” The song was absolute. “I am Caer-Caveral, the Forestal of Andelain. In all the Land I am the last of my kind.”

“Yes,” Covenant said. “I remember. You saved my life at the Colossus of the Fall—after I came out of Morinmoss. I think you must have saved me in Morinmoss, too.”

“There is no Morinmoss.” Caer-Caveral’s melody became bleakness and pain. “The Colossus has fallen.”

No Morinmoss? No forests? Covenant clenched himself, held the tears down. “What do you want from me? I’ll do anything.”

The Forestal hummed for a moment without answering. Then he sang, “Thomas Covenant, have you beheld Andelain?”

“Yes.” Clenching himself. “I’ve seen it.”

“In all the Land, it is the last keep of the Law. With my strength, I hold its fabric unrent here. When I fail in the end—as fail I must, for I am yet Hile Troy withal, and the day comes when I must not refuse to sacrifice my power—there will be no restitution for the abysm of that loss. The Earth will pass into its last age, and nothing will redeem it.”

“I know.” With his jaws locked. “I know.”

“Thomas Covenant,” the tall man sang, “I require from you everything and nothing. I have not brought you here this night to ask, but to give. Behold!” A sweeping gesture of his staff scattered the grass with music; and there, through the melody like incarnations of song, Covenant saw them. Pale silver as if they were made of moonshine, though the moon had no such light, they stood before him. Caer-Caveral’s streaming argence illumined them as if they had been created out of Forestal-fire.

Covenant’s friends.

High Lord Mhoram, with the wise serenity of his eyes, and the crookedness of his smile.

Elena daughter of Lena and rape, herself a former High Lord, beautiful and passionate. Covenant’s child; almost his lover.

Bannor of the Bloodguard, wearing poise and capability and the power of judgment which could never be wrested from him.

Saltheart Foamfollower, who towered over the others as he towered over all mortals in size, and humor, and purity of spirit.

Covenant stared at them through the music as if the sinews of his soul were fraying. A moan broke from his chest, and he went forward with his arms outstretched to embrace his friends.

“Hold!”

The Forestal’s command froze Covenant before he could close the separation. Immobility filled all his muscles.

“You do not comprehend,” Caer-Caveral sang more kindly. “You cannot touch them, for they have no flesh. They are the Dead. The Law of Death has been broken, and cannot be made whole again. Your presence here has called them from their sleep, for all who enter Andelain encounter their Dead here.”

Cannot—? After all this time? Tears streamed down Covenant’s cheeks; but when Caer-Caveral released him, he made no move toward the specters. Almost choking on his loss, he said, “You’re killing me. What do you want?”

“Ah, beloved,” Elena replied quickly, in the clear irrefusable voice which he remembered with such anguish, “this is not a time for grief. Our hearts are glad to behold you here. We have not come to cause you pain, but to bless you with our love. And to give you gifts, as the Law permits.”

“It is a word of truth,” added Mhoram. “Feel joy for us, for none could deny the joy we feel in you.”

“Mhoram,” Covenant wept, “Elena. Bannor. Oh, Foamfollower!”

The Forestal’s voice took on a rumble like the threat of thunder. “Thus it is that men and women find madness in Andelain. This must not be prolonged. Thomas Covenant, it is well that your companions did not accompany you. The man and woman of the Land would break at the sight of their Dead. And the woman of your world would raise grim shades here. We must give our gifts while mind and courage hold.”

“Gifts?” Covenant’s voice shook with yearning. “Why—? How—?” He was so full of needs that he could not name them all.

“Ah, my friend, forgive us,” Mhoram said. “We may answer no questions. That is the Law.”

“As in the summoning of dead Kevin which broke the Law of Death,” interposed Elena, “the answers of the Dead rebound upon the questioner. We will not harm you with our answers, beloved.”

“And you require no answers.” Foamfollower was laughing in his gladness. “You are sufficient to every question.”

Foamfollower! Tears burned Covenant’s face like blood. He was on his knees, though he could not remember kneeling.

“Enough,” the Forestal hummed. “Even now he falters.” Graceful and stately, he moved to Covenant’s side. “Thomas Covenant, I will not name the thing you seek. But I will enable you to find it.” He touched Covenant’s forehead with his staff. A white blaze of music ran through Covenant’s mind. “The knowledge is within you, though you cannot see it. But when the time has come, you will find the means to unlock my gift.” As the song receded, it left nothing in its wake but a vague sense of potential.

Caer-Caveral stepped aside; and High Lord Mhoram came soundlessly forward. “Ur-Lord and Unbeliever,” he said gently, “my gift to you is counsel. When you have understood the Land’s need, you must depart the Land, for the thing you seek is not within it. The one word of truth cannot be found otherwise. But I give you this caution: do not be deceived by the Land’s need. The thing you seek is not what it appears to be. In the end, you must return to the Land.”

He withdrew before Covenant could ask him to say more.

Elena took the High Lord’s place. “Beloved,” she said with a smile of deep affection, “it has befallen me to speak a hard thing to you. The truth is as you have feared it to be; the Land has lost its power to remedy your illness, for much great good has been undone by the Despiser. Therefore I rue that the woman your companion lacked heart to accompany you, for you have much to bear. But she must come to meet herself in her own time. Care for her, beloved, so that in the end she may heal us all.”

Then her voice grew sharper, carrying an echo of the feral hate which had led her to break the Law of Death. “This one other thing I say to you also. When the time is upon you, and you must confront the
Despiser, he is to be found in Mount Thunder—in Kiril Threndor, where he has taken up his abode.”

Elena, Covenant moaned. You still haven’t forgiven me, and you don’t even know it.

A moment later, Bannor stood before him. The Bloodguard’s
Haruchai
face was impassive, implacable. “Unbeliever, I have no gift for you,” he said without inflection. “But I say to you, Redeem my people. Their plight is an abomination. And they will serve you well.”

Then Foamfollower came forward; and Covenant saw that the Giant was not alone. “My dear friend,” said Foamfollower gaily, “to me has fallen the giving of a gift beyond price. Behold!”

He indicated his companion; and Covenant could tell at once that this figure was not one of the Dead. He wore a short gray tunic, and under it all his skin from head to foot was as black as the gaps between the stars. His form was perfectly shaped and strong; but his hair was black, his teeth and gums were black, his pupil-less eyes were pure midnight. He held himself as if he were oblivious to the Dead and the Forestal and Covenant. His eyes gazed emptily, regarding nothing.

“He is Vain,” said Foamfollower, “the final spawn of the ur-viles.” Covenant flinched, remembering ur-viles. But the Giant went on, “He crowns all their generations of breeding. As your friend, I implore you: take him to be your companion. He will not please you, for he does not speak, and serves no purpose but his own. But that purpose is mighty, and greatly to be desired. His makers have ever been lore-wise, though tormented, and when it comes upon him he, at least, will not fail.

“I say that he serves no purpose but his own. Yet in order that you may accept him, the ur-viles have formed him in such a way that he may be commanded once. Once only, but I pray it may suffice. When your need is upon you, and there is no other help, say to him, ‘
Nekhrimah
, Vain,’ and he will obey.

“Thomas Covenant. My dear friend.” Foamfollower bent close to him, pleading with him. “In the name of Hotash Slay, where I was consumed and reborn, I beg you to accept this gift.”

Covenant could hardly refrain from throwing his arms around the Giant’s neck. He had learned a deep dread of the ur-viles and all their works. But Foamfollower had been his friend, and had died for it. Thickly he said, “Yes. All right.”

“I thank you,” the Giant breathed, and withdrew.

For a moment, there was silence. Wraith-light rose dimly, and the Dead stood like icons of past might and pain. Caer-Caveral’s song took on the cadence of a threnody. Crimson tinged the flow of his phosphorescence. Covenant felt suddenly that his friends were about to depart. At once, his heart began to labor, aching for the words to tell them that he loved them.

The Forestal approached again; but High Lord Mhoram stayed him. “One word more,” Mhoram said to Covenant. “This must be spoken, though I risk much in saying it. My friend, the peril upon the Land is not what it was. Lord Foul works in new ways, seeking ruin, and his evil cannot be answered by any combat. He has said to you that you are his Enemy. Remember that he seeks always to mislead you. It boots nothing to avoid his snares, for they are ever beset with other snares, and life and death are too intimately intergrown to be severed from each other. But it is necessary to comprehend them, so that they may be mastered. When—” He hesitated momentarily. “When you have come to the crux, and have no other recourse, remember the paradox of white gold. There is hope in contradiction.”