Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves (6 page)

Despite his seventy years, Quaan carried proudly the insignia of his office: the yellow breastplate with its twin black diagonal slashes, the yellow headband, and the ebony sword. His gnarled hands hung at his sides as if they were ready to snatch up weapons at any moment. But his pale eyes were disquieted.

Mhoram met the Warmark’s gaze steadily and said, “Well, my friend?”

“High Lord,” Quaan said brusquely, “the Loresraat has come.”

Mhoram could see that the Warmark had more to say than this. His eyes asked Quaan to continue.

“All the Lorewardens and students have made the journey from Trothgard safely,” Quaan responded. “The libraries of the Loresraat and the Wards have been brought here intact. All the visitors and those made homeless by the march of Satansfist’s army through the Center Plains have come seeking sanctuary. Revelwood is besieged.”

He stopped again, and Mhoram asked quietly, “What word do the Lorewardens bring of that army?”

“It is—vast, High Lord. It assaults the Valley of Two Rivers like a sea. The Giant-Raver Satansfist bears with him the—the same power which we saw in Fleshharrower at the battle of Doriendor Corishev. He easily overcame the river fords of the Rill and Llurallin. Revelwood will soon fall to him.”

The High Lord put a measure of sternness in his voice to counter Quaan’s dismay. “We were forewarned, Warmark. When the Giant-Raver and his horde climbed Landsdrop to the north of the Plains of Ra, the Ramen sent word to us. Therefore the Loresraat has been preserved.”

Quaan braced one hand on his sword and said, “Lord Callindrill has remained in Revelwood.”

Mhoram winced in painful surprise.

“He has remained to defend the tree city. With him are five Howard commanded by Hiltmark Amorine—also Sword-Elder Drinishok and Staff-Elder Asuraka.”

After the first jolt of the news, the High Lord’s gold-flecked irises concentrated dangerously. “Warmark, the Council commanded that Revelwood should be defended only by those of the
lillianrill
who could not bear to abandon it. The Council commanded that the battle for the Land should take place here”—he slapped the table with his palm—“where we can exact the greatest possible price for our lives.”

“You and I are not at Revelwood,” Quaan replied bluntly. “Who there could command Lord Callindrill to turn aside from his purpose? Amorine could not—you know this. They are bound together by the costs they bore at Doriendor Corishev. Nor could she leave him alone. Nor could she refuse the aid of the Elders.”

His voice was sharp in Hiltmark Amorine’s defense, but he stopped when Mhoram with a distracted gesture waved all questions of anger aside. They remained together in silence for a moment. The High Lord felt an aching anticipation of grief, but he forced it down. His eyes wandered back to the bust on the table. Softly, he said, “Has this word been given to Faer Callindrill-mate?”

“Corimini the Eldest of the Loresraat went to her at once. Callindrill studied with him, and he has known them both for many years. He apologized for not first paying his respects to the High Lord.”

Mhoram shrugged away the need for any apology. His helplessness to reach Callindrill hurt him. He was six days from Revelwood by horse. And he could not call upon the Ranyhyn. The Despiser’s army had effectively cut Revelstone off from the Plains of Ra; any Ranyhyn that tried to answer a summons would almost certainly be slaughtered and eaten. All the High Lord could do was wait—and pray that Callindrill and his companions fled Revelwood before Satansfist encircled them. Two thousand warriors and the Hiltmark of the Warward, two of the leaders of the Lorewardens, one Lord—it was a terrible price to pay for Callindrill’s bravado.

But even as he thought this, Mhoram knew that Callindrill was not acting out of bravado. The Lord simply could not endure the thought that Revelwood might perish. Mhoram privately hoped Satansfist would let the tree stand—use it rather than destroy it. But Callindrill had no such hope. Ever since he had faltered during the battle of Doriendor Corishev, he had seen himself as a man who had disgraced his Lord’s duty, failed to meet the challenge of the Land’s need. He had seen himself as a coward. And now Revelwood, the fairest work of the new Lords, was under attack. Mhoram sighed again, and gently touched the bone of the marrowmeld with his fingers.

In the back of his mind, he was readying his decision.

“Quaan, my friend,” he mused grimly, “what have we accomplished in seven years?”

As if this signaled an end to the formal side of their conversation, Quaan lowered himself into a chair opposite Mhoram, and allowed his square shoulders to sag fractionally. “We have prepared for the siege of Revelstone with all our strength. We have restored the Warward somewhat—the ten Eowards which survived have been increased to twenty-five. We have brought the people of the Center Plains here, out of Satansfist’s way. We have stored food, weapons, supplies. The Gray Slayer will require more than a sea of ur-viles and Cavewights to break our hold here.”

“He has more, Quaan.” Mhoram continued to stroke the strangely revealing face of the
anundivian yajña
bust. “And we have lost the Bloodguard.”

“Through no fault of ours.” Quaan’s pain at the loss made him sound indignant. He had fought side-by-side with the Bloodguard more than any other warrior in the Land. “We could not have known at that time, when the mission to Seareach was given to Korik and the Bloodguard, that the Gray Slayer would attack the Giants with the Illearth Stone. We could not have known that Korik would defeat a Raver and would attempt to bring a piece of the Stone here.”

“We could not have known,” Mhoram echoed hollowly. After all, the end of his oracular dreams was not a great loss. Despite the myriad terrors he had beheld, he had not glimpsed or guessed at Lord Foul’s attack on the Giants in time. “My friend, do you remember what Bannor told us concerning this sculpture?”

“High Lord?”

“He reported that Elena daughter of Lena carved it of Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder—and that ur-Lord Covenant mistook it for the face of a Bloodguard.” Banner had also reported that Covenant had forced him to tell Elena the name of the Power hidden in the Seventh Ward, so that she could meet the conditions for approaching that Power. But Mhoram was interested for the moment in the resemblance which High Lord Elena had worked into her carving. That had been the starting point, the beginning from which he had traveled to reach his secret knowledge. “She was a true Craftmaster of the bone-sculpting skill. She would not unwittingly have made such confusion possible.”

Quaan shrugged.

Mhoram smiled fondly at the Warmark’s unwillingness to hazard opinions beyond his competence. “My friend,” he said, “I saw the resemblance, but could not decipher it. Ahanna daughter of Hanna aided me. Though she does not know the marrowmeld skill, she has an artist’s eye. She perceived the meaning which Elena made here.

“Quaan, the resemblance is that both ur-Lord Covenant the Unbeliever and Bannor of the Bloodguard require absolute answers to their own lives. With the Bloodguard it was their Vow. They demanded of themselves either pure, flawless service forever or no service at all. And the Unbeliever demands—”

“He demands,” Quaan said sourly, “that his world is real and ours is not.”

Another smile eased Mhoram’s somberness, then faded. “This demand for absolute answers is dangerous. Kevin, too, required either victory or destruction.”

The Warmark met Mhoram’s gaze grimly for a moment before he said, “Then do not resummon the Unbeliever. High Lord, he will lay waste the Land to preserve his ‘real’ world.”

Mhoram cocked an eyebrow at Quaan, and his crooked lips tightened. He knew that the Warmark had never trusted Covenant, yet in this time of crisis any doubt was more important, less answerable. But before he could reply, urgent knuckles pounded at his door. The tight voice of a sentry hissed, “High Lord, come swiftly! High Lord!”

Immediately Mhoram stood and moved toward the door. As he strode, he banished all his reveries, and brought his senses into focus on the ambience of Revelstone, searching it for the cause of the sentry’s distress.

Quaan, reaching the door a step ahead of him, thrust it open. Mhoram hastened out into the bright, round courtyard.

The whole high cavern of the court was clearly illuminated by the pale-yellow light which shone up through the stone floor, but Mhoram did not need to look up to any of the projecting coigns in the cavern walls to see why the sentry had called him. Lord Amatin stood in the center of the floor’s inextinguishable light. She faced him with her back to her own chambers, as if she had been on her way toward him when the distress had come upon her.

In her hands she gripped the
lomillialor
communication rod which the Loresraat had given to Revelstone seven years ago.

She looked like a dark shadow against the bright floor, and in her hands the High Wood burned flamelessly, like a slit opening into a furnace. Small cold balls of sparks dropped in spurts from the wood. Mhoram understood instantly that she was receiving a message from whomever it was who held the other communication rod, the one at Revelwood.

He snatched up his long, iron-heeled staff from its tripod outside his door and strode across the courtyard to Amatin. He knew from experience that the sending or receiving of
lomillialor
messages was an exhausting ordeal. Amatin would want his help. She was not physically strong, and knew it; when word of the Despiser’s army had reached the Lords, she had transferred to Callindrill her responsibility for Revelwood—hers because of her passionate love for lore—because she believed she lacked the sheer bodily toughness to endure prolonged strain. Yet hidden within her slight waifish frame and grave eyes was a capacity for knowledge, a devotion to study, which no other Lord could match. The High Lord had often thought that she was better equipped and less likely to uncover his secret than anyone else in the Land.

Now, silhouetted by the bright floor of the courtyard, she looked thin and frail—a mere image cast by the power in her hands. Her whole body trembled, and she held the
lomillialor
rod at arm’s length as if to keep it as far from herself as possible without releasing it. She started to speak before Mhoram reached her.

“Asuraka,” she gasped. “Asuraka speaks.” Her voice juddered like a branch in a high wind. “Satansfist. Fire. Fire! The tree! Ahh!” As she panted the words, she stared at Mhoram in wide dismay as if through him she could see flames chewing at the trunks of Revelwood.

Mhoram stopped within reach of the High Wood and planted his staff like a command on the floor. Pitching his voice to penetrate her transfixion, he said, “Hold fast, Amatin. I hear.”

She ducked her head, trying to avoid what she saw, and words spattered past her lips as if someone had hurled a heavy boulder into the waters of her soul. “Fire! The bark burns. The wood burns. The Stone! Leaves, roots, fibers are consumed. Callindrill fights. Fights! Screams—the warriors scream. The south hall burns! Ah, my home!”

Grimly Mhoram clenched his fist around the center of the
lomillialor
rod. The power of the message stung him, jolted him from head to foot, but he gripped the smooth wood and forced the strength of his will into it. Through it, he reached Amatin, steadied her; and with her support he reversed the flow of power through the High Wood for an instant. Against the flood of Asuraka’s emotion, he hissed toward her, “Flee!”

The Staff-Elder heard. Through Amatin’s lips, she cried back, “Flee? We cannot flee! Revelwood dies under us. We are surrounded. All the outer branches burn. Two trunks are aflame to their tops. Screams! Screams. Lord Callindrill stands in the
viancome
and fights. The central trunks burn. The net of the
viancome
burns. Callindrill!”

“Water!” Mhoram dashed his words at Asuraka through the communication rod. “Call the rivers! Flood the valley!”

For a moment, the pressure from Asuraka sagged, as if she had turned away from her rod. Mhoram breathed urgently, “Asuraka! Staff-Elder!” He feared that she had fallen in the fire. When she resumed her message, she felt distant, desolate.

“Lord Callindrill called the rivers—earlier. Satansfist turned the flood aside. He—the Illearth Stone—” A new note of horror came into the weak voice which shuddered between Amatin’s lips. “He resurrected the old death of Kurash Plenethor. Blasted rock and blood and bones and burned earth rose up through the ground. With old waste he walled Revelwood, and turned the water. How is it possible? Is Time broken? With one stroke of the Stone centuries of healing are rent asunder.”

Suddenly Amatin stiffened in one shrill cry: “Callindrill!”

The next instant, the
lomillialor
fell silent; the power dropped from it like a stricken bird. Lord Amatin staggered, almost fell to her knees. Mhoram caught her forearm to help her keep her feet.

In the abrupt silence, the courtyard felt as dead and cold as a tomb. The atmosphere flocked with echoes of anguish like the noiseless beating of black wings. Mhoram’s knuckles where he gripped his staff were strained and white.

Then Amatin shuddered, took hold of herself. The High Lord stepped back and made himself aware of the other people in the court. He could feel their presences. Quaan stood a few paces behind him, and several sentries were scattered around the rim of the shining floor. A handful of spectators watched fearfully from the railed coigns in the walls of the cavity. But the High Lord turned from them all to his left, where Corimini the Eldest of the Loresraat stood with Faer Callindrill-mate. The Eldest held each of Faer’s shoulders with an old wrinkled hand. Tears glistened under his heavy eyelids, and his long white beard quivered in grief. But Faer’s bluff face was as blank and pale as bone sculpture.

“Is he dead, then, High Lord?” she asked softly.

“Death reaps the beauty of the world,” replied Mhoram.

“He burned.”

“Satansfist is a Raver. He hates all green growing things. I was a fool to hope that Revelwood might be spared.”