Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves (15 page)

“Look to yourself,” Triock replied gruffly. “I am not unaccustomed to stone—even stone as chill as this.”

“Well, then. Let us make what haste we can. We have endured much to come so far, you and I. We must not lose the ur-Lord now.”

Without waiting for an answer, he started down the rude stair of Kevin’s Watch.

Covenant turned his face to the Giant’s breast. The breeze had a high lonely sound as it rustled past the cliff and eddied around Foamfollower; it reminded Covenant that the Watch stood more than four thousand feet above the foothills. But Foamfollower’s heart beat with forthright confidence, and his arms felt unbreakable. At each downward step, a slight jolt passed through him, as if that foot had locked itself to the stair stone. And Covenant no longer possessed even strength enough for fear. He rode numbly in the Giant’s hold until the hum of the wind increased, and Foamfollower dropped one step at a time into the cold sea of clouds.

In moments, the sunlight was gone as if it had been irretrievably lost. The wind took on a raw, dry, cutting edge, too chill to be softened by moisture. Covenant and Foamfollower descended through dim vistaless air as icy as polar mist—cloud as thick and thetic as a fist clenched around the world. Under its pressure, Covenant felt icicles crawling up his spine toward the last warmth of life left in him.

Then they reached the ledge at the base of Kevin’s Watch. The precipice loomed darkly beside them as Foamfollower turned to the right and moved out along the ledge, but he stepped securely, as if he had no conception of falling. And shortly he left the exposed cliff-face, began to clamber along the trail into the mountains. After that, the last tension faded from the background of Covenant’s mind. His weakness opened in him like a funereal lily, and the mist drew him into a wan, slumberous daze.

For some time he lost track of where Foamfollower was going. He seemed to feel himself bleeding away into the gray air. Tranquility like the peace of ice surrounded his heart. He no longer understood what Foamfollower was talking about when the Giant whispered urgently, “Triock, he fails. We must aid him now or not at all.”

“Yes,” Triock agreed. He called commandingly, “Bring blankets and graveling! He must have warmth.”

“That will not suffice. He is ill and injured. He must have healing.

Triock snapped, “I see him. I am not blind.”

“Then what can we do? I am helpless here—the Giants have no lore for cold. We suffer little from it.”

“Rub his limbs. Put your strength into him. I must think.”

Something rough began to batter Covenant, but the ice in him was impervious to it. Vaguely, he wondered why Foamfollower and Triock would not let him sleep.

“Is there no hurtloam here?” asked the Giant.

“At one time there was,” Triock responded distantly. “Lena—Lena healed him in this same place—when he first came to the Land. But I am not a
rhadhamaerl
—I do not feel the secret flavors and powers of the Earth. And it is said that the hurtloam has—retreated—that it has hidden itself to escape the ill which is upon the Land. Or that this winter has slain it. We cannot succor him in that way.”

“We must help him. His very bones freeze.”

Covenant felt himself being shifted, felt blankets being wrapped around him. In the background of his haze, he thought he saw the kind yellow light of graveling. That pleased him; he could rest better if the gray fog did not dominate everything.

After a moment, Triock said uncertainly, “It is possible that the power of the High Wood can help him.”

“Then begin!” the Giant urged.

“I am no Hirebrand. I have no
lillianrill
lore—I have only studied this matter in the Loresraat for a year—after High Lord Mhoram gave the
lomillialor
to me. I cannot control its power.”

“Nevertheless! You must make the attempt.”

Triock protested. “The High Wood test of truth may quench the last flicker within him. Hale and whole, he might fail such testing.”

“Without it he will surely die.”

Triock snarled under his breath, then said grimly, “Yes. Yes, Rockbrother. You out see me. Keep life within him. I must prepare.”

In a mood of sadness, Covenant saw that the yellow light was receding into gray around him. He did not know how he could bear to lose it. Raw, reviling fog had no right to outweigh graveling in the balance of the Land. And there was no more hurtloam. No more hurtloam, he repeated with an unexpected pang. His sorrow turned to anger. By hell! Foul, he grated mutely, you can’t do this. I won’t let you. The hate for which he had been groping a night and a world earlier began to return to him. With the strength of anger, he pried his eyes open.

Triock was standing over him. The Stonedownor held his
lomillialor
rod as if he meant to drive it like a spike between Covenant’s eyes. In his hands, the white wood shone hotly, and steam plumed from it into the chill air. A smell of wood sap joined the loamy odor of the graveling.

Muttering words that Covenant could not understand, Triock brought the rod down until its end touched the infected fever in his forehead.

At first, he felt nothing from the contact; the
lomillialor
pulsed effectlessly on his wound as if he were immune to it. But then he was touched from another direction. An exquisite ache of heat cut through the ice in his left palm, spreading from the ring he wore. It sliced into him, then moved up through his wrist. It hurt him as if it were flaying cold and flesh off his bones, but the pain gave him a kind of savage pleasure. Soon his whole left arm was livid with excruciation. And under the heat his bruises reawoke, came back from the dead.

When the hold of the ice had been broken that far, it began to give way in other places. Warmth from the blankets reached toward his battered ribs. The joints of his legs throbbed as if they had been kicked into consciousness. In moments, his forehead remembered its anguish.

Then Triock transferred the tip of the High Wood from his forehead to the tight black swelling of his lip. At once, agony erupted within him, and he plunged into it as if it were solace.

He returned to consciousness slowly, but when he opened his eyes he knew that he had become steadier. His wounds were not healed; both his forehead and mouth ached like goads embedded in his flesh, and his body moaned with bruises. But the ice no longer gnawed his bones. The swelling of his lip was reduced, and his sight had improved, as if the lenses of his eyes had been cleaned. Yet he felt a private grief at the numbness which clung to his hands and feet. His dead nerves had not yet rediscovered the health which he had learned to expect from the Land.

But he was alive—he was in the Land—he had seen Foamfollower. He set aside the distress of his nerves for another time, and looked around him.

He lay in a small, sheer valley nestled among the mountains behind Kevin’s Watch. While he had been unconscious, the enshrouding sea of clouds had receded a few hundred feet, and now light snow filled the air like murmuring. Already an inch of it blanketed him. Something in the timbre of the snow gave him the impression that the time was late afternoon. But he was not concerned about time. He had been in this valley once before, with Lena.

The memory of it contrasted starkly with what he saw. It had been a quiet, grassy place girdled with pines like tall sentinels guarding its quietude, and a sprightly brook flowing down its center. But now only bare, wasted earth showed through the thickening snow. The pines had been stripped naked and splintered by more winter than they could survive; and instead of water, a weal of ice ran through the valley like a scar already old.

Covenant wondered painfully how long this weather would last.

The implications of that question made him shiver, and he fought his tired frame into a sitting position so that he could lean closer to the pot of graveling. As he did so, he saw three figures sitting around another pot a short distance away. One of them observed his movement and spoke to the others. At once Triock stood and strode toward Covenant. He squatted near the Unbeliever, and studied him gravely before saying, “You have been grievously ill. My lore does not suffice to heal you. But I see that you are no longer dying.”

“You saved me,” Covenant said as bravely as he could through the pain of his mouth and his inanition.

“Perhaps. I am unsure. The wild magic has been at work in you.” Covenant stared, and Triock went on: “It appeared that the
lomillialor
drew a response from the white gold of your ring. With that power, you surpass any test of truth I might give.”

My ring, Covenant thought dully. But he was not ready to deal with that idea, and he set it aside also. “You saved me,” he repeated. “There are things I need to know.”

“Let them be. You must eat now. You have not taken food for many days.” He looked around through the snow, then said, “Saltheart Foamfollower brings you
aliantha
.”

Covenant heard heavy feet moving across the frozen ground. A moment later Foamfollower knelt with a quiet smile beside him. Both his hands were full of viridian treasure-berries.

Covenant looked at the
aliantha
. He felt he had forgotten what to do with them; he had been hungry for so long that hunger had become a part of him. But he could not refuse the offer behind the Giant’s kind smile. Slowly he reached out a numb hand and took one of the treasure-berries.

When he slipped it past his lip and bit into it, the tangy salt-peach flavor which blossomed in his mouth seemed to refute all his reasons for fasting. And as he swallowed, he could feel nourishment rushing eagerly into him. He spit the seed into his palm; as if he were completing a ritual, he dropped it over his shoulder. Then he began to eat rapidly, wolfishly.

He did not stop until Foamfollower’s hands were empty. Sighing as if he longed for more, he sowed the last seed behind him.

The Giant nodded approval and seated himself in a more relaxed position near the graveling. Triock followed his example. When they were both looking at him, Covenant said softly, “I won’t forget this.” He could not think of any other way to express his thanks.

Triock frowned sharply. He asked Foamfollower, “Does he threaten us now?”

The Giant’s cavernous eyes searched Covenant’s face. He smiled wanly as he replied, “The Unbeliever has a mournful turn of speech. He does not threaten—he does not threaten us.”

Covenant felt a surge of grim gratitude for Foamfollower’s understanding. He tried to smile in return, but the tightness of his lip prevented him. He winced at the effort, then pulled his blankets more closely around him. He sensed a depth of cold answers behind the questions he needed to ask.

But he did not know how to ask them. Triock’s bitter mouth and Foamfollower’s scars intruded between him and his summoners; he feared that he was to blame for the tales they might tell him if he asked. Yet he had to know the answers, had to know where he stood. The first outlines of purpose were taking shape within him. He could not forget how this valley had looked when he had first seen it. And Mhoram had pleaded with him for help.

Lamely he began, “I didn’t expect to turn up here. I thought Mhoram was going to call me back. But even he doesn’t have the Staff of Law. How—how did you do it?”

Triock answered in stiff tones, “Mhoram son of Variol, seer and oracle to the Council of Lords, came to Mithil Stonedown before the last war—the battle against Fleshharrower Raver. At that time, he gave to me the
lomillialor
rod which I have used today—and for the past three days. Because of his gift, I journeyed to the Loresraat, to study the uses of the High Wood. There I learned of High Lord Elena’s fall—I—”

He paused for a moment to lash down his passion, then went on. “In the years which followed, I waited for the reason of High Lord Mhoram’s gift to be made plain. During that time, I fought with my people against the marauders of the Gray Slayer. Then the Giant Saltheart Foamfollower joined us, and we fought together through the South Plains. While winter increased upon the Land, we attacked and ran and attacked again, doing what damage we could to our vast foe. But at last word came to us that Revelwood had fallen—that great Revelstone itself was besieged. We left our battles, and returned to Mithil Stonedown and Kevin’s Watch. With the
lomillialor
of High Lord Mhoram, and the strength of Saltheart Foamfollower, and the lore I brought from the Loresraat, we labored for three days, and in the end brought you to the Land. It was not easily done.”

Triock’s flint voice sparked visions of desperation in Covenant’s mind. To resist them, control them until he was ready for them, he asked, “But how? I thought only the Staff of Law—”

“Much has been broken by the fall of High Lord Elena,” Triock retorted. “The Land has not yet tasted all the consequences of that evil. But the Staff made possible certain expressions of power—and limited others. Now that limit is gone. Do you not feel the malice of this winter?”

Covenant nodded with an ache in his eyes. His responsibility for Elena’s end stung him, goaded him to ask another kind of question. “That doesn’t tell me why you did it. After Lena—and Elena—and Atiaran”—he could not bring himself to be more specific—“and everything—you’ve got less reason than anyone in the world to want me back. Even Trell— Maybe Foamfollower here can forget, but you can’t. If you were thinking it any louder, I could taste it.”

Bitterness clenched Triock’s jaws, but his reply was sharp and ready, as if he had whetted it many times. “Yet Foamfollower is persuasive. The Land is persuasive. The importance which the Lorewardens see in you is persuasive. And Lena daughter of Atiaran still lives in Mithil Stonedown. In her last years, Atiaran Trell-mate said often that it is the duty of the living to make meaningful the sacrifices of the dead. But I wish to find meaning for the sacrifices of those who live. After—after the harm which you wrought upon Lena—she hid herself so that the harm would not be known—so that you would be left free to bear your prophecy to the Lords. That sacrifice requires meaning, Unbeliever.”