Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves (23 page)

At the mouth of the chamber, Triock and Quirrel shed their packs and cloaks, opened their ice-stiff inner garments to the warmth. Then they took their first clear look at their rescuer. He was bald except for a white fringe at the back of his head, and his mouth hid in a gnarled white beard. His eyes were so heavily couched in wrinkles that he seemed to have spent generations squinting at illegible communications; and this impression of age was both confirmed by the old pallor of his skin and denied by the upright strength of his frame. Now Triock could see that his robe had been white at one time. It had gained its dull granite color from long years of contact with the cave walls.

In his home, he seemed even more disturbed by the Stonedownors. His eyes flicked fearful and surprised glances at them—not as if he considered them evil, but rather as if he distrusted their clumsiness, as if his life lay in fragile sections on the floor and might be broken by their feet.

“I have little food,” he said as he watched the puddles which Triock and Quirrel left behind. “Food also—I have no time for it.” But then an old memory seemed to pass across his face—a recollection that the people of the Land did not treat their guests in this way. Triock felt suddenly sure that the One had been living in this cave before he, Triock, was born. “I am not accustomed,” the man went on as if he felt he should explain himself. “One life does not suffice. When I found I could not refuse succor to the Wraiths—much time was lost. They repay me as they can, but much—much— How can I live to the end of my work? You are costly to me. Food itself is costly.”

As Triock recovered himself in the cave’s mouth, he remembered his message to the Lords, and his face tightened into its familiar frown. “The Gray Slayer is costly,” he replied grimly.

His statement disconcerted the Unfettered One. “Yes,” he mumbled. Bending quickly, he picked up a large flask of water and a covered urn containing dried fruit. “Take all you require,” he said as he handed these to Triock. “I have—I have seen some of the Despiser’s work. Here.” He gestured vaguely at the walls of his cave.

There was little fruit in the urn, but Triock and Quirrel divided it between them. As he munched his share, Triock found he felt a great deal better. Although the meager amount of food hardly touched his hunger, his skin seemed to be absorbing nourishment as well as warmth from the Wraith light. And the radiance of the flames affected him in other ways also. Gradually the numbness of frostbite faded from his fingers and toes ears; blood and health flowed back into them as if they had been treated with hurtloam. Even the habitual sourness which galled his mouth seemed to decline.

But his mission remained clear to him. When he was sure that Quirrel had regained her stability, he asked her to go a short way out of the tunnel to stand guard.

She responded tightly, “Will pursuit come even here?”

“Who can say?” The Unfettered One did not appear to be listening, so Triock went on: “But we must have this One’s aid—and I fear he will not be persuaded easily. We must not be surprised here with the message unattempted.”

Quirrel nodded, approving his caution though she clearly believed that no pursuit could have followed them through the blizzard. Without delay, she collected her cloak and weapons and moved away down the cave until she was out of sight beyond the first bend.

The Unfettered One watched her go with a question in his face.

“She will stand guard while we talk,” Triock answered.

“Do we require guarding? There are no ill creatures in these mountains—in this winter. The animals do not intrude.”

“Foes pursue me,” said Triock. “I bear my own ill—and the Land’s need.” But there he faltered and fell silent. For the first time, he realized the immensity of his situation. He was face to face with an Unfettered One and Wraiths. In this cave, accompanied by dancing flames, the One studied secret lores which might have amazed even the Lords. Awe crowded forward in Triock; his own audacity daunted him. “Unfettered One,” he mumbled, “lore-servant—I do not intrude willingly. You are beyond me. Only the greatness of the need drives—”

“I have saved your life,” the One said brusquely. “I know nothing of other needs.”

“Then I must tell you.” Triock gathered himself and began, “The Gray Slayer is abroad in the Land—”

The tall man forestalled him. “I know my work. I was given the Rites of Unfettering when Tamarantha was Staff-Elder of the Loresraat, and know nothing else. Except for the intrusion of the Wraiths—except—which I could not refuse—I have devoted my meager flesh here, so that I might work my work and see what no eyes have seen before. I know nothing else—no, not even how the Wraiths came to be driven from Andelain, though they speak of ur-viles and—Such talk intrudes.”

Triock was amazed. He had not known that Tamarantha Variol-mate had ever been Staff-Elder of the Loresraat, but such a time must have been decades before Prothall became High Lord at Revelstone. This Unfettered One must have been out of touch with all the Land for the past four-or five-score years. Thickly, awefully, Triock said, “Unfettered One, what is your work?”

A grimace of distaste for explanations touched the man’s face. “Words—I do not speak of it. Words falter.” Abruptly he moved to the wall and touched one of the stone facets gently, as if he were caressing it. “Stone is alive. Do you see it? You are Stonedownor—do you see it? Yes, alive—alive and alert. Attentive. Everything—everything which transpires upon or within the Earth is seen—beheld—by the Earthrock.” As he spoke, enthusiasm came over him. Despite his awkwardness, he could not stop once he had begun. His head leaned close to the stone until he was peering deeply into its flat blackness. “But the—the process—the action of this seeing is slow. Lives like mine are futilely swift—Time—time!—is consumed as the seeing spreads—from the outer surfaces inward. And this time varies. Some veins pass their perception in to the mountain roots in millennia. Others require millennia of millennia.

“Here”—he gestured around him without moving from where he stood—“can be seen the entire ancient history of the Land. For one whose work is to see. In these myriad facets are a myriad perceptions of all that has occurred. All!

“It is my work to see—and to discover the order—and to preserve—so that the whole life of the Land may be known.”

As he spoke, a tremor of passion shook the Unfettered One’s breathing.

“Since the coming of the Wraiths, I have studied the fate of the One Forest. I have seen it since the first seed grew to become the great Tree. I have seen its awakening—its awareness—the peaceful communion of its Land-spanning consciousness. I have seen Forestals born and slain. I have seen the Colossus of the Fall exercise its interdict. The hand of the Forest is upon me. Here”—his hands touched the facet into which he stared as if the stone were full of anguish—“I see men with axes—men of the ground with blades formed from the bones of the ground— I see them cut—!”

His voice trembled vividly. “I am Woodhelvennin. In this rock I see the desecration of trees. You are Stonedownor. You bear a rare fragment of High Wood, precious
lomillialor
.”

Suddenly he turned from the wall and confronted Triock with a flush or urgent fervor, almost of desperation, in his old face. “Give it to me!” he begged. “It will help me see.” He came forward until his eager hands nearly touched Triock’s chest. “My life is not the equal of this rock.”

Triock did not need to think or speak. If Covenant himself had been standing at his back, he would not have acted differently; he could not distrust an Unfettered One any more than he could have distrusted a Lord.

Without hesitation, he drew out the High Wood rod and placed it in the tall man’s hands. Then, very quietly, he said, “The foes who pursue me also seek this
lomillialor
. It is a perilous thing I have given you.”

The One did not appear to hear. As his fingers closed on the wood, his eyes rolled shut, and a quiver passed through his frame; he seemed to be drinking in the High Wood’s unique strength through his hands.

But then he turned outward again. With several deep breaths he steadied himself until he was gazing calmly into Triock’s face.

“Perilous,” he said. “I hear you. You spoke of the Land’s need. Do you require aid to fight your foes?”

“I require a message.” All at once, Triock’s own urgency came boiling up in him, and he spouted, “The whole Land is at war! The Staff of Law has been lost again, and with it the Law of Death has been broken! Creatures that destroy stone have attacked Mithil Stonedown. Revelstone itself is besieged! I need—!”

“I hear you,” the tall man repeated. His earlier awkwardness was gone; possession of the High Wood seemed to make him confident, capable. “Do not fear. I have found that I must help you also. Speak your need.”

With an effort, Triock wrenched himself into a semblance of control. “You have heard the Wraiths,” he rasped. “They spoke to you of ur-viles—and white gold. The bearer of that white gold is a stranger to the Land, and he has returned. The Lords do not know this. They must be told.”

“Yes.” The One held Triock’s hot gaze. “How?”

“The Loresraat formed this High Wood so that messages may be spoken through it. I have no lore for such work. I am a Stonedownor, and my hands are not apt for wood. I—”

But the Unfettered One accepted Triock’s explanation with a wave of his hand. “Who,” he asked, “who in Revelstone can hear such speaking?”

“High Lord Mhoram.”

“I do not know him. How can I reach him? I cannot direct my words to him if I do not know him.”

Inspired by urgency, Triock answered, “He is the son of Tamarantha Variol-mate. You have known Tamarantha. The thought of her will guide you to him.”

“Yes,” the One mused. “It is possible. I have—I have not forgotten her.”

“Tell the High Lord that Thomas Covenant has returned to the Land and seeks to attack the Gray Slayer. Tell him that Thomas Covenant has sworn to destroy Foul’s Creche.”

The One’s eyes widened at this. But Triock went on: “The message must be spoken now. I have been pursued. A blizzard will not prevent any eyes which could see the High Wood in my grasp.”

“Yes,” the tall man said once more. “Very well—I will begin. Perhaps it will bring this intrusion to an end.”

He turned as if dismissing Triock from his thoughts, and moved into the center of his cave. Facing the entrance of the chamber, he gathered the Wraiths around him so that he was surrounded in light, and held the
lomillialor
rod up before his face with both hands. Quietly he began to sing—a delicate, almost wordless melody that sounded strangely like a transposition, a rendering into human tones, of the Wraith song. As he sang, he closed his eyes, and his head tilted back until his forehead was raised toward the ceiling.

“Mhoram,” he murmured through the pauses in his song, “Mhoram. Son of Variol and Tamarantha. Open your heart to hear me.”

Triock stared at him, tense and entranced.

“Tamarantha-son, open your heart. Mhoram.”

Slowly power began to gleam from the core of the smooth rod.

The next instant, Triock heard feet behind him. Something about them, something deadly and abominable, snatched his attention, spun him toward the entrance to the chamber.

A voice as harsh as the breaking of stone grated, “Give it up. He cannot open his heart to you. He is caught in our power and will never open his heart again.”

Yeurquin stood just within the cave, eyes exalted with madness.

The sight stunned Triock. Yeurquin’s frozen apparel had been partially torn from him, and wherever his flesh was bare the skin hung in frostbitten tatters. The blizzard had clawed his face and hands to the bone. But no blood came from his wounds.

He bore Quirrel in his arms. Her head dangled abjectly from her broken neck.

When he saw Yeurquin, the Unfettered One recoiled as if he had been struck—reeled backward and staggered against the opposite wall of the cave, gaping in soundless horror.

Together the Wraiths fled, screaming.

“Yeurquin.” The death and wrong which shone from the man made Triock gag. He croaked the name as if he were strangling on it. “Yeurquin?”

Yeurquin laughed with a ragged, nauseating sound. In gleeful savagery, he dropped Quirrel to the floor and stepped past her. “We meet at last,” he rasped to Triock. “I have labored for this encounter. I think I will make you pay for that labor.”

“Yeurquin?” Staggering where he stood, Triock could see that the man should have been dead; the storm damage he had suffered was too great for anyone to survive. But some force animated him, some ferocity that relished his death kept him moving. He was an incarnated nightmare.

The next moment, the Unfettered One mastered his shock, rushed forward. Wielding the
lomillialor
before him like a weapon, he cried hoarsely, “
Turiya
Raver! Tree foe! I know you—I have seen you.
Melenkurion abatha!
Leave this place. Your touch desecrates the very Earth.”

Yeurquin winced under the flick of the potent words. But they did not daunt him. “Better dead feet like mine than idiocy like yours,” he smirked. “I think I will not leave this place until I have tasted your blood, Unfettered wastrel. You are so quick to give your life to nothing. Now you will give it to me.”

The One did not flinch. “I will give you nothing but the
lomillialor
test of truth. Even you have cause to fear that,
turiya
Raver. The High Wood will burn you to the core.”

“Fool!” the Raver laughed. “You have lived here so long that you have forgotten the meaning of power!”

Fearlessly he started toward the two men.

With a sharp cry, Triock threw off his stunned dismay. Sweeping his sword from its scabbard, he sprang at the Raver.

Yeurquin knocked him effortlessly aside, sent him careening to smack his head against the wall. Then
turiya
closed with the Unfettered One.

Pain slammed through Triock, flooded his mind with blood. Gelid agony shrieked in his chest where the Raver had struck him. But for one moment, he resisted unconsciousness, lurched to his feet. In torment, he saw
turiya
and the Unfettered One fighting back and forth, both grasping the High Wood. Then the Raver howled triumphantly. Bolts of sick, red-green power shot up through the Unfettered One’s arms and shattered his chest.