Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves (42 page)

Before he had covered two leagues, daylight began to fail in the air, and night fell from the clouds like rain. But Morinmoss roused itself to light his way. And after his long rest, he did not need sleep. He slowed his pace so that he could move without disturbing the dark moss, and went on while the Forest grew lambent and restless around him. Its ancient uneasiness, its half-conscious memory of outrage and immense bereavement, was not directed at him—the perennial mood of the trees almost seemed to stand back as he passed, allowing him along his way—but he felt it nonetheless, heard it muttering through the breeze as if Morinmoss were breathing between clenched teeth. His senses remained truncated, winter-blurred, as they had been before his crisis with Pietten and Lena, but still he could perceive the Forest’s sufferance of him. Morinmoss was aware of him and made a special exertion of tolerance on his behalf.

Then he remembered that Garroting Deep also had not raised its hand against him. He remembered Caerroil Wildwood and the Forestal’s unwilling disciple. Though he knew himself suffered, permitted, he murmured “Mercy,” to the pale, shining trunks and strove to move carefully, avoiding anything which might give offense to the trees.

His caution limited his progress, and when dawn came he was still wending generally southeast within the woods. But now he was reentering the demesne of winter. Cold snapped in the air, and the trees were bleak. Grass had given way to bare ground. He could see the first thin skiffs of snow through the gloom ahead of him. And as dawn limped into ill day, he began to learn what a gift the white robe was. Its lightness made it easy to wear, yet its special fabric was warm and comfortable, so that it held out the harshness of the wind. He considered it a better gift than any knife or staff or
orcrest
-stone, and he kept it sashed gratefully around him.

Once the tree shine had subsided into daylight, he stopped to rest and eat. But he did not need much rest, and after a frugal meal he was up and moving again. The wind began to gust and flutter around him. In less than a league, he left the last black shelter of the Forest, and went out into Foul’s uninterrupted spite.

The wilderness of snow and cold that met his blunt senses seemed unchanged. From the edges of the Forest, the terrain continued to slope gradually downward, through the shallow rumpling of old hills, until it reached the dull river flowing miserably into the northeast. And across his whole view, winter exerted its gray ruination. The frozen ground slumped under the ceaseless rasp of the wind and the weight of the snowdrifts until it looked like irreparable disconsolation or apathy, an abdication of loam and intended verdancy. In spite of his white robe and his recovered strength, he felt the cut of the cold, and he huddled into himself as if the Land’s burden were on his shoulders.

For a moment he peered through the wind with moist eyes to choose his direction. He did not know where he was in relation to the shallows where he had crossed the river. But he felt sure that this river was in fact the Roamsedge, the northern boundary of the Plains of Ra. And the terrain off to his left seemed vaguely familiar. If his memory of the Quest for the Staff of Law did not delude him, he was looking down at the Roamsedge Ford.

Leaning against the wind, limping barefoot over the brutalized ground, he made for the Ford as if it were the gateway to his altered purpose.

But the distance was greater than it had appeared from the elevation of the Forest, and his movements were hampered by wind and snow and hill slopes. Noon came before he reached the last ridge west of the Ford.

When his gaze passed over the top of the ridge and down toward the river crossing, he was startled to see a man standing on the bank.

The man’s visage was hidden by the hood of a Stonedownor cloak, but he faced squarely toward Covenant with his arms akimbo as if he had been impatiently awaiting the Unbeliever’s arrival for some time. Caution urged Covenant to duck out of sight. But almost at once the man gestured brusquely, barking in tones that sounded like a distortion of a voice Covenant should have been able to recognize, “Come, Unbeliever! You have no craft for hiding or flight. I have watched your approach for a league.”

Covenant hesitated, but in his hollow surety he was not afraid. After a moment, he shrugged, and started toward the Ford. As he moved down the hillside, he kept his eyes on the waiting man and searched for some clue to the man’s identity. At first he guessed that the man represented a part of his lost experience in the Forest and the woman’s cave—a part he might never be able to comprehend or evaluate. But then his eyes made out the pattern woven into the shoulders of the Stonedownor cloak. It was a pattern like crossed lightning.

“Triock!” he gasped under his breath. Triock?

He ran over the hard ground, hurried up to the man, caught him by the shoulders. “Triock.” An awkward thickness in his throat constricted his voice. “Triock? What are you doing here? How did you get here? What happened?”

As Covenant panted questions at him, the man averted his face so that the hood sheltered his features. His hands leaped to Covenant’s wrists, tore Covenant’s hands off his shoulders as if their touch were noxious to him. With unmistakable ire, he thrust Covenant away from him. But when he spoke, his barking tone sounded almost casual.

“Well, ur-Lord Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder.” He invested the titles with a sarcastic twang. “You have not come far in so many days. Have you rested well in Morinmoss?”

Covenant stared and rubbed his wrists; Triock’s anger left a burning sensation in them, like a residue of acid. The pain gave him an instant of doubt, but he recognized Triock’s profile beyond the edge of the hood. In his confusion, he could not think of a reason for the Stonedownor’s belligerence. “What happened?” he repeated uncertainly. “Did you get in touch with Mhoram? Did you find that Unfettered One?”

Triock kept his face averted. But his fingers flexed and curled like claws, hungry for violence.

Then a wave of sorrow effaced Covenant’s confusion. “Did you find Lena?”

With the same hoarse casualness, Triock said, “I followed you because I do not trust your purpose—or your companions. I see that I have not misjudged.”

“Did you find Lena?”

“Your vaunted aim against the Despiser is expensive in companions as well as in time. How was the Giant persuaded from your side? Did you leave him”—he sneered—“among the perverse pleasures of Morinmoss?”

“Lena?” Covenant insisted thickly.

Triock’s hands jerked to his face as if he meant to claw out his eyes. His palms muffled his voice, made it sound more familiar. “With a spike in her belly. And a man slain at her side.” Fierce trembling shook him. But abruptly he dropped his hands, and his tone resumed its mordant insouciance. “Perhaps you will ask me to believe that they slew each other.”

Through his empty sorrow, Covenant replied, “It was my fault. She tried to save me. Then I killed him.” He felt the incompleteness of this, and added, “He wanted my ring.”

“The fool!” Triock barked sharply. “Did he believe he would be permitted to keep it?” But he did not give Covenant time to respond. Quietly again, he asked, “And the Giant?”

“We were ambushed. He stayed behind—so that Lena and I could get away.”

A harsh laugh spat between Triock’s teeth. “Faithful to the last,” he gibed. The next instant, a wild sob convulsed him as if his self-control had snapped—as if a frantic grief had burst the bonds which held it down. But immediately he returned to sarcasm. Showing Covenant a flash of his teeth, he sneered, “It is well that I have come.”

“Well?” Covenant breathed. “Triock, what happened to you?”

“Well, forsooth.” The man sniffed as if he were fighting tears. “You have lost much time in that place of harm and seduction. With each passing day, the Despiser grows mightier. He straitly binds—” His teeth grinned at Covenant under the shadow of his hood. “Thomas Covenant, your work must be no longer delayed. I have come to take you to Ridjeck Thome.”

Covenant gazed intensely at the man. A moment passed while he tested his hollow core and found that it remained sure. Then he bent all his attention toward Triock, tried to drive his truncated sight past its limits, its superficiality, so that he might catch some glimpse of Triock’s inner estate. But the winter, and Triock’s distraction, foiled him. He saw the averted face, the rigid flex and claw of the fingers, the baring of the white wet teeth, the turmoil, but he could not penetrate beyond them. Some stark travail was upon the Stonedownor. In sympathy and bafflement and self-defense, Covenant said, “Triock, you’ve got to tell me what happened.”

“Must I?”

“Yes.”

“Do you threaten me? Will you turn the wild magic against me if I refuse?” Triock winced as if he were genuinely afraid, and an oddly craven grimace flicked like a spasm across his lips. But then he shrugged sharply and turned his back, so that he was facing straight into the wind. “Ask, then.”

Threaten? Covenant asked Triock’s hunched shoulders. No, no. I don’t want it to happen again. I’ve done enough harm.

“Ask!”

“Did you”—he could hardly get the words through his clogged throat—“did you find that Unfettered One?”

“Yes!”

“Did he contact Mhoram?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“He did not suffice!”

The bitterness of the words barked along the bitter wind, and Covenant could only repeat, “Triock, what happened?”

“The Unfettered One lacked strength to match the
lomillialor
. He took it from me and could not match it. Yeurquin and Quirrel were lost—more companions lost while you dally and falter!”

Both lost.

“I didn’t— How did you find me?”

“This is expensive blood, Covenant. When will it sate you?”

Sate me? Triock! The question hurt him, but he endured it. He had long ago lost the right to take umbrage at anything Triock might say. With difficulty, he asked again, “How did you find me?”

“I waited! Where else could you have gone?”

“Triock.” Covenant covered himself with the void of his calm and said, “Triock, look at me.”

“I do not wish to look at you.”

“Look at me!”

“I have no stomach for the sight.”

“Triock!” Covenant placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

Instantly Triock spun and struck Covenant across the cheek.

The blow did not appear powerful; Triock swung shortly, as if he were trying to pull back his arm. But force erupted at the impact, threw Covenant to the ground several feet away. His cheek stung with a deep pain like vitriol that made his eyes stream. He barely saw Triock flinch, turn and start to flee, then catch himself and stop, waiting across the distance of a dozen yards as if he expected Covenant to hurl a spear through his back.

The pain roared like a rush of black waters in Covenant’s head, but he forced himself to sit up, ignored his burning cheek, and said quietly, “I’m not going to Foul’s Creche.”

“Not?” Surprise spun Triock to face Covenant.

“No.” Covenant was vaguely surprised by his own certitude. “I’m going to cross the river—I’m going to try to go south with the Ramen. They might—”

“You dare?” Triock yelled. He seemed livid with fury, but he did not advance toward Covenant. “You cost me my love! My comrades! My home! You slay every glad face of my life! And then you say you will deny the one promise which might recompense? Unbeliever! Do you think I would not kill you for such treachery?”

Covenant shrugged. “Kill me if you want to. It doesn’t make any difference.” The pain in his face interfered with his concentration, but still he saw the self-contradiction behind Triock’s threat. Fear and anger were balanced in the Stonedownor, as if he were two men trapped between flight and attack, straining in opposite directions. Somewhere amid those antagonists was the Triock Covenant remembered. He resisted the roaring in his head and tried to explain so that this Triock might understand.

“The only way you can kill me is if I’m dying in my own world. You saw me—when you summoned me. Maybe you could kill me. But if I’m really dying, it doesn’t matter whether you kill me or not. I’ll get killed somehow. Dreams are like that.

“But before you decide, let me try to tell you why—why I’m not going to Foul’s Creche.”

He got painfully to his feet. He wanted to go to Triock, look deeply into the man’s face, but Triock’s conflicting passions kept him at a distance.

“I’m not exactly innocent. I know that. I told you it was my fault, and it is. But it isn’t
all
my fault. Lena and Elena and Atiaran—and Giants and Ranyhyn and Ramen and Bloodguard—and you—it isn’t all my fault. All of you made decisions for yourselves. Lena made her own decision when she tried to save me from punishment—after I raped her. Atiaran made her own decision when she helped me get to Revelstone. Elena made her own decision when she drank the EarthBlood. You made your own decision—you decided to be loyal to the Oath of Peace. None of it is entirely my doing.”

“You talk as if we exist,” Triock growled bitterly.

“As far as my responsibility goes, you do. I don’t control my nightmares. Part of me—the part that’s talking—is a victim, as you are. Just less innocent.

“But Foul has arranged it all. He—or the part of me that does the dreaming—has been arranging everything from the beginning. He’s been manipulating me, and I finally figured out why. He wants this ring—he wants the wild magic. And he knows—knows!—that if he can get me feeling guilty and responsible and miserable enough I’ll try to fight him on his own ground—on his own terms.

“I can’t win a fight like that. I don’t know how to win it. So he wants me to do it. That way he ends up with everything. And I end up like any other suicide.

“Look at me, Triock! Look! You can see that I’m diseased. I’m a leper. It’s carved into me so loud anybody could see it. And lepers—commit suicide easily. All they have to do is forget the law of staying alive. That law is simple, selfish, practical caution. Foul’s done a pretty good job of making me forget it—that’s why you might be able to kill me now if you want to. But if I’ve got any choice left, the only way I can use it is by remembering who I am. Thomas Covenant, leper. I’ve got to give up these impossible ideas of trying to make restitution for what I’ve done. I’ve got to give up guilt and duty, or whatever it is I’m calling responsibility these days. I’ve got to give up trying to make myself innocent again. It can’t be done. It’s suicide to try. And suicide for me is the only absolute, perfect way Foul can win. Without it, he doesn’t get the wild magic, and it’s just possible that somewhere, somehow, he’ll run into something that can beat him.