The Wounded Land (49 page)

Vain ignored them as if he had already forgotten they had the power to harm him. He moved to one of the far tables. There he found what he sought: two wide bands of dull gray iron.

Covenant identified them more by instinct than any distinctive feature.

The heels of the Staff of Law.

The Staff of Law, greatest tool of the Council of Lords, formed by Berek Halfhand from a branch of the One Tree. It was destroyed by wild magic when Lord Foul had forced dead Elena to wield it against the Land. Bannor had borne the heels back to Revelstone after the Despiser’s defeat.

Before anyone could react, Vain donned the bands.

One he slipped over his right hand. It should have been too small; but it went past his knuckles without effort, and fitted snugly to his wrist.

The other he pulled onto his left foot. The iron seemed elastic. He drew it over his arch and heel easily, settled it tight about his ankle.

A Rider gasped. Akkasri and another woman faced Covenant. “Halfhand,” Akkasri’s companion snapped, “this is upon your head. The Aumbrie of the Clave is forbidden to all. We will not tolerate such violation.”

Her tone brought Covenant back to himself. Dangers bristled in the air. Thinking rapidly, he said, “All the lore of the Lords— everything that used to belong to the Council. It’s all here. It’s all intact.”

“Much is intact,” Akkasri said rigidly. “The Council was decadent. Some was lost.”

Covenant hardly heard her. “The First and Second Wards.” He gestured toward the shining caskets. “The Third Ward? Did they find the Third Ward?” Foreseeing the Ritual of Desecration, Kevin Landwaster had hidden all his knowledge in Seven Wards to preserve it for future Councils; but during High Lord Mhoram’s time, only the first two and the last had been found.

“Evidently,” a Rider retorted. “Little good it did them.”

“Then why”—Covenant put all his appalled amazement into his voice—“don’t you use it?”

“It is lore for that which no longer exists.” The reply had the force of an indictment. “It has no value under the Sunbane.”

Oh, hell. Covenant could find no other words for his dismay. Hell and blood.

“Come!” The Rider’s command cut like a lash. But it was not directed at Covenant. She and her companions had turned toward Vain. Their
rukhs
burned redly, summoning power.

Vain obeyed, moving as if he had remembered the source of his injury. Akkasri grabbed his arm, tried to pull the band from his wrist; but the metal was Iron and inflexible.

Gesturing with their
rukhs
, she and the Riders escorted Vain from the Aumbrie as if Covenant were not present.

He followed them. To his surprise, they herded Vain away from the hidden doorway.

They went some distance down the rough corridor. Then the passage turned sharply, and debouched into a huge hall lit by many torches. The air was gray with smoke.

With a stab of shock, Covenant realized that the hall was a dungeon.

Scores of bolted iron doors seriated both walls. In each, heavy bars guarded a small window. Half a thousand people could have been imprisoned here, and no one who lacked Vain’s instincts or knowledge could ever have found them.

As Covenant stared about him, the implications of the Riders’ anger burned into clarity in his mind. Gibbon had not intended him to know of this place.

How many other secrets were there in Revelstone?

One of the Riders hurried to a door and shot back the bolts. Within lay a cell barely wide enough to contain a straw pallet.

With their
rukhs
, Akkasri and the other Rider forced Vain toward the door.

He turned under the architrave. His captors flourished threats of fire; but he made no move against them. He aimed one look at Covenant. His black face wore an expression of appeal.

Covenant glared back, uncomprehending. Vain?

A gift beyond price
, Foamfollower had said.
No purpose but his own
.

Then it was too late. The door clanged shut on Vain. The Rider thrust home the bolts.

Uselessly Covenant protested, What do you want from me?

The next instant, a brown arm reached between the window bars of a nearby cell. Fingers clawed the air, desperate for freedom.

The gesture galvanized Covenant. It was something he understood. He dashed toward that door.

A Rider shouted at him, forbidding him. He paid no heed.

As he gained the door, the arm withdrew. A flat face pressed against the bars. Impassive eyes gazed out at him.

He almost lost his balance in horror. The prisoner was one of the
Haruchai
—one of Bannor’s people, who made their home high in the fastnesses of the Westron Mountains. He could not mistake the stern characteristic mien of the race that had formed the Bloodguard, could not mistake the resemblance to Bannor, who had so often saved his life.

In Andelain, Bannor’s shade had said,
Redeem my people. Their plight is an abomination
.

Suppressing the tonal hit of his native tongue, the
Haruchai
said, “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder, I salute you. You are remembered among the
Haruchai
.” The implacable rigor of his personality seemed incapable of supplication. “I am Brinn. Will you set us free?”

Then hot iron struck the back of Covenant’s neck, and he stumbled like a cripple into darkness.

His unconsciousness was agony, and he could do nothing to assuage it. For a time as painful as frenzy, he lay deaf and blind. But gradually the darkness turned to rain. Torrents, muffled by granite, poured down walls, cascaded off eaves and parapets, rattled against oriels. The sound carried him back to himself. He became aware of the texture of blankets against his skin, aware of the deadness in his fingers and feet, the numbness of loss.

Remembering leprosy, he remembered everything, with an acuteness that made him press his face to the bed, knot his hands in the blanket under him. Vain. The
Haruchai
. The attack of the Riders.

That hidden door, which led to the Aumbrie, and the dungeon.

It was the same kind of door which the Despiser had formerly used in Foul’s Creche. What was such a door doing in Revelstone?

A shudder ran through him. He rolled over, wincing at the movement. The back of his neck was stiff and sore. But the bones were intact, and the damage to his muscles did not seem permanent.

When he opened his eyes, he found Gibbon sitting beside his bed. The na-Mhoram’s beatific face was tightened to express concern; but his red eyes held only peril.

A quick glance showed Covenant that he lay in the bedroom of his suite. He struggled to sit up. Sharp pains lanced through his back and shoulders; but the change of position enabled him to cast a glance at his right hand.

His ring was still there. Whatever else the Clave intended, they apparently did not intend to steal the white gold.

That steadied him. He looked at the na-Mhoram again, and made an intuitive decision not to raise the issue of the door. He had too many other dangers to consider.

“Doubtless,” Gibbon said with perfect blandness, “your neck gives you pain. It will pass. Swarte employed excessive force. I have reprimanded her.”

“How—?” The hurt seemed to cramp his voice. He could barely squeeze out a hoarse whisper. “How long have I been out?”

“It is now midday of the second day of rain.”

Damnation, Covenant groaned. At least one whole day. He tried to estimate how many people the Clave had killed in that period of time, but could not. Perhaps they had killed Brinn—He thrust the idea away.

“Akkasri,” he breathed, filling the name with accusation.

Gibbon nodded calmly. “Akkasri na-Mhoram-in.”

“You lied to me.”

The na-Mhoram’s hebetude seemed impervious to offense. “Perhaps. My intent was not false. You came to Revelstone rife with hostility and suspicion. I sought means to allay your mistrust—and at the same time to ward against you if your purpose was evil. Therefore I informed you that Akkasri was of the na-Mhoram-cro. I desired to win your faith. In that I was not false. Guised as a na-Mhoram-cro, Akkasri could answer many questions without presenting to you the apparent threat of power. This I believed because of your treatment of Memla na-Mhoram-in. I regret that the outcome went amiss.”

This sounded plausible; but Covenant rejected it with a shake of his head. Immediately a stab of soreness made him grimace. Muttering darkly to himself, he massaged his neck. Then he changed the subject, hoping to unsettle Gibbon. “What the hell are you doing with one of the
Haruchai
in your goddamn prison?”

But the na-Mhoram appeared immune to discomfiture. Folding his arms, he said, “I sought to withhold that knowledge from you. Already you believe that you have sufficient cause for mistrust. I desired that you should have no more such reasons until you learned to see the sovereign importance of our work.”

Abruptly Gibbon went in another direction. “Halfhand, did the
Haruchai
name you truly? Are you indeed ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder?”

“What difference does that make?” growled Covenant.

“That name is mentioned often in the ancient legends. After the First Betrayer, Thomas Covenant was the greatest of all a-Jeroth’s servants.”

“That’s ridiculous.” This new distortion of the Land’s history dismayed him. But he was determined to evade Gibbon’s snare. “How could I possibly be that Thomas Covenant? Where I come from, the name’s common. So are white gold rings.”

Gibbon gazed redly at him; but Covenant did not blink. A lie for a lie, he rasped. Finally the na-Mhoram admitted, “You have not the look of such age.” Then he went on, “But I was speaking of the
Haruchai
.

“Halfhand, we have not one
Haruchai
in our hold. We have threescore and seven.”

Three—! Covenant could not keep the horror off his face.

“There.” Gibbon gestured at him. “I had cause to fear your response.”

“By God!” Covenant spat fiercely. “You ought to fear the
Haruchai
! Don’t you know what you’re dealing with?”

“I respect them entirely.” The na-Mhoram’s dull calm was complete. “Their blood is potent and precious.”

They were my friends! Covenant could hardly refrain from shouting aloud. What in the name of all bloody hellfire and damnation do you think you’re doing?

“Halfhand, you know that our work requires blood,” Gibbon continued reasonably. “As the Sunbane grows, the Banefire must grow to resist it. We are long beyond the time when the people of the Land could meet all our need.

“Five generations past, when Offin na-Mhoram led the Clave, he was faced with the defeat of our dream. He had neared the limit of what the Land could supply, and it did not suffice. I will not dwell on his despair. It is enough to say that at that time—by chance or mercy—the
Haruchai
came to our aid.”

He shrugged. “It is true that they did not intend the aid we found in them. Five came from the Westron Mountains in the name of their legends, seeking the Council. But Offin did not flinch his opportunity. He took the five captive.

“With the passage of time, five more came in search of their lost kindred. These also were captured. They were hardy and feral, but the power of the Banefire mastered them. And later more
Haruchai
came seeking the lost. First by five, then by ten, then by the score they came, with long lapses between. They are a stubborn people, and generation after generation they did not relent. Generation after generation, they were captured.” Covenant thought he saw a glint of amusement in Gibbon’s red eyes. “As their numbers increased, so grew the Banefire. Thus not a one of them prevailed or escaped.

“Their most recent foray comprised five score—a veritable army in their sight.” Gibbon’s blandness sounded like the serenity of a pure heart. “Three score and seven remain.”

An abomination
. The na-Mhoram’s tale made Covenant ache for violence. He could hardly muffle his vehemence as he asked, “Is this supposed to convince me that you’re my friend?”

“I do not seek your conviction here,” replied Gibbon. “I seek only to explain, so that you will comprehend why I sought to withhold this knowledge—and why Swarte struck you when you beheld the
Haruchai
. You must perceive the extent of our consecration to our task. We count any one life—or any score of lives—or any myriad—as nothing against the life of the Land. The Sunbane is an immense ill, and we must spend immensely to combat it.

“Also I desire you to understand that your aid—the service of your white ring—promises the redemption of the Land, the saving of many times many lives. Does our shedding distress you? Then aid us, so that the need for blood may be brought to an end. You cannot serve the Land in any other way.”

Covenant held Gibbon with a glare. Through his teeth, he breathed, “I knew the original Mhoram. The last time I was here, I made him choose between the hope of the Land and the life of one little girl. He chose the girl.” No words could articulate all the bile in his mouth. “You’re worse than the Sunbane.”

He expected the na-Mhoram to retort; but Gibbon only blinked, and said, “Then it is sooth that you are the Unbeliever?”

“Yes!” Covenant snapped, casting subterfuge and safety aside. “And I’m not going to let you commit genocide on the
Haruchai
.”

“Ah.” Gibbon sighed, rising to his feet, “I feared that we would come to this,” He made a placating gesture. “I do not seek your harm. But I see only one means by which we may win your aid. I will ready the Clave for a soothtell. It will reveal the truth you covet. Lies will be exposed, hearts laid bare.”

He moved to the doorway. “Rest now, Halfhand. Eat—regain your strength. Walk where you wish. I ask only that you eschew the Aumbrie and the hold until that which stands between us has been resolved. I will send for you when the soothtell has been prepared.” Without waiting for an answer, he left the suite.

Soothtell, Covenant snarled. His inner voice sounded like a croak. By God, yes!

Ignoring the pain in his neck, he threw off the blankets and went to the next room in search of food.