Power That Preserves

  The Power That Preserves (The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever, Book 3) is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Del Rey eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1977 by Stephen R. Donaldson

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Originally published in Mass Market in 1977 by Del Rey, an imprint of the Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Del Rey and the Del Rey colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81866-9

  www.delreybooks.com

  Del Rey eBook edition: [DATE TK.]

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  What Has Gone Before

  1: The Danger in Dreams

  2: Variol-son

  3: The Rescue

  4: Siege

  5: Lomillialor

  6: The Defense of Mithil Stonedown

  7: Message to Revelstone

  8: Winter

  9: Ramen Covert

  10: Pariah

  11: The Ritual of Desecration

  12: Amanibhavam

  13: The Healer

  14: Only Those Who Hate

  15: “Lord Mhoram’s Victory”

  16: Colossus

  17: The Spoiled Plains

  18: The Corrupt

  19: Ridjeck Thome

  20: The Unbeliever

  21: Leper’s End

  Glossary

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  What Has Gone Before

  Thomas Covenant is a happy and successful author until an unfelt infection leads to the amputation of two fingers. Then he learns he has leprosy. The disease is arrested at a leprosarium, but he returns home to find himself an outcast. His wife has divorced him, and his neighbors shun him in ignorant fear.

  Lonely and bitter, he goes to town. There, just after meeting a strange beggar, he stumbles in front of a police car. He revives in a strange world where the evil voice of Lord Foul orders that he take a message of doom to the Lords of the Land. High on a mountain, at Kevin’s Watch, a young girl named Lena finds him and takes him to her home. There he is considered a reincarnation of a legendary hero, Berek Halfhand, and his white gold wedding ring is considered a talisman of great power.

  Lena treats him with a mud called hurtloam, which seems to arrest his leprosy. This sudden healing is more than he can handle, and, losing control of himself, he rapes Lena. Despite this, her mother Atiaran saves him from Lena’s lover, Triock, and agrees to guide him to Revelstone, home of the Lords. She tells him of the ancient war between the Old Lords and Foul, which ended in millennia of desecration for the Land.

  Covenant cannot believe in the Land, where stone and wood are made to give heat and light by magic. He becomes the Unbeliever because he dares not relax the discipline that a leper needs in order to survive. The land seems a delirious escape from reality.

  Through the help of Saltheart Foamfollower, a friendly Giant, Covenant reaches Revelstone. There the Lords accept him and name him ur-Lord. They are dismayed when he gives them Foul’s message that an evil Cavewight holds the powerful Staff of Law. They no longer have even the powers of the Old Lords whom Foul overcame; of the Seven Wards of lore, they have only the first.

  They must seek the Staff, held in the caverns under Mount Thunder. Covenant goes with them, guarded by Bannor, one of the Bloodguard who have kept a Vow for long ages to guard the Lords. They go south, attacked by Foul’s minions, to the Plains of Ra. There the Ramen serve the Ranyhyn, the great free horses. The Ranyhyn bow to the power of Covenant’s ring, and he orders that one horse shall go to Lena to do her will once a year.

  The Lords ride to Mount Thunder. After many encounters with evil creatures and dark magic, High Lord Prothall wrests the Staff from Drool, the Cavewight. They escape when Covenant manages to use the power of his ring—without understanding how.

  As the Lords flee, Covenant begins to fade. He wakes in a hospital bed; only a few hours have elapsed since his accident. His leprosy has come back, supporting his belief that the Land is a delusion. He is discharged from the hospital and returns home.

  But after a month, his loneliness drives him to a nightclub, where a singer calls him Berek. Before he can confront her, the overzealous sheriff forces him to return home. Later his wife calls him, but before he can reply, he stumbles and knocks himself out.

  Again he is in the Land—but there forty years have passed. The High Lord is now Elena, Covenant’s daughter by Lena. She harbors no ill will, however, and a warm relationship grows between them. But the Lords are desperate. Foul has found the Illearth Stone, source of great evil power; now he is preparing to attack. The army of the Lords—commanded by Hile Troy, who seems to be from Covenant’s “real” Earth—appears too small to meet the challenge.

  A force of Bloodguard and Lords are sent to Coercri, city of the Giants, to gain allies for the war. But there they find that Foul has killed the Giants—all but three whose bodies have been taken over by Ravers, the evil spirits of Foul’s ancient lieutenants. The Bloodguard and Lords are attacked by one Giant-Raver but manage to kill him, at least in bodily form. The Bloodguard unfortunately take the piece of the Illearth Stone the Raver carried, intending to return it to the Lords.

  Some of the other Lords travel to Revelwood, a city in a vast tree where the Lore is taught. From there, Hile Troy takes his army south, accompanied by Lord Mhoram. In a desperate attempt, he meets the army of Lord Foul, commanded by another Giant-Raver. Troy is forced to flee. Finally he retreats to Garroting Deep, where the last of the ancient, sentient trees are guarded by Caerroil Wildwood, a powerful Forestal. Wildwood saves the last of Troy’s army and destroys the enemy. He hangs the Raver, forcing the evil spirit to suffer and leave the Giant body.

  Meanwhile Elena has taken Covenant and their Bloodguard toward the mysterious Melenkurion Skyweir, a great mountain near Garroting Deep. They are led by Amok, a strange servant of Kevin’s Lore, who can guide them to the ancient mysteries. They find a way into the heart of the mountain, where Amok ages and vanishes. Elena, against the pleas of Covenant, drinks from the water Amok has shown her. In doing so, she gains the Power of Command. Arrogantly she summons the spirit of Lord Kevin and commands that he destroy Foul. But Foul overcomes Kevin’s shade easily, and Kevin then turns against Elena and the Staff of Law, eventually killing her.

  Covenant and Bannor escape down a river that flows out of the mountain. Covenant is sick with self-loathing and grief, blaming himself for Elena’s death. They meet Troy and Lord Mhoram near Garroting Deep.

  Caerroil Wildwood sends Mhoram home, but he turns Hile Troy into a tree, to become an apprentice Forestal. And Covenant again fades from the Land.

  He recovers consciousness in his home. His leprosy is again in his body, his forehead is wounded from his fall and his wife has long since hung up. And now he must face the knowledge that his impotence has left the Land open to destruction, without most of the army and without the power of the Staff of Law.

  This is a brief summary of Lord Foul’s Bane and The Illearth War, the first two Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever.

  Be true, Unbeliever

  ONE: The Danger in Dreams

  Thomas Covenant was talking in his sleep. At times he knew what he was doing; the brok
en pieces of his voice penetrated his stupor dimly, like flickers of innocence. But he could not rouse himself—the weight of his exhaustion was too great. He babbled like millions of people before him, whole or ill, true or false. But in his case there was no one to hear. He would not have been more alone if he had been the last dreamer left alive.

  When the shrill demand of the phone cut through him, he woke up wailing.

  For a moment after he threw himself upright in bed, he could not distinguish between the phone and his own flat terror; both echoed like torment through the fog in his head. Then the phone rang again. It pulled him sweating out of bed, compelled him to shamble like a derelict into the living room, forced him to pick up the receiver. His numb, disease-cold fingers fumbled over the black plastic, and when he finally gained a grip on it, he held it to the side of his head like a pistol.

  He had nothing to say to it, so he waited in blankness for the person at the other end of the line to speak.

  A woman’s voice asked uncertainly, “Mr. Covenant? Thomas Covenant?”

  “Yes,” he murmured, then stopped, vaguely surprised by all the things he had with that one word admitted to be true.

  “Ah, Mr. Covenant,” the voice said. “Megan Roman calling.” When he said nothing, she added with a touch of acerbity, “Your lawyer. Remember?”

  But he did not remember; he knew nothing about lawyers. Numb mist confused all the links of his memory. Despite the metallic distortion of the connection, her voice sounded distantly familiar; but he could not identify it.

  She went on, “Mr. Covenant, I’ve been your lawyer for two years now. What’s the matter with you? Are you all right?”

  The familiarity of her voice disturbed him. He did not want to remember who she was. Dully he murmured, “It doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have called if it didn’t have to do with you. I wouldn’t have anything to do with it if it weren’t your business.” Irritation and discomfort scraped together in her tone.

  “No.” He did not want to remember. For his own benefit, he strained to articulate, “The Law doesn’t have anything to do with me. She broke it. Anyway, I— It can’t touch me.”

  “You better believe it can touch you. And you better listen to me. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but—”

  He interrupted her. He was too close to remembering her voice. “No,” he said again. “It doesn’t bind me. I’m—outside. Separate. It can’t touch me. Law is”—he paused for a moment, groped through the fog for what he wanted to say—“not the opposite of Despite.”

  Then in spite of himself he recognized her voice. Through the disembodied inaccuracy of the phone line, he identified her.

  Elena.

  A sickness of defeat took the resistance out of him.

  She was saying, “—what you’re talking about. I’m your lawyer, Megan Roman. And if you think the law can’t touch you, you’d better listen to me. That’s what I’m calling about.”

  “Yes,” he said hopelessly.

  “Listen, Mr. Covenant.” She gave her irritation a free hand. “I don’t exactly like being your lawyer. Just thinking about you makes me squirm. But I’ve never backed down on a client before, and I don’t mean to start with you. Now pull yourself together and listen to me.”

  “Yes.” Elena? he moaned dumbly. Elena? What have I done to you?

  “All right. Here’s the situation. That—unfortunate escapade of yours—Saturday night—has brought matters to a head. It— Did you have to go to a nightclub, Mr. Covenant? A nightclub, of all places?”

  “I didn’t mean it.” He could think of no other words for his contrition.

  “Well, it’s done now. Sheriff Lytton is up in arms. You’ve given him something he can use against you. He spent Sunday evening and this morning talking to a lot of people around here. And the people he talked to talked to other people. The township council met at noon.

  “Mr. Covenant, this probably wouldn’t have happened if everyone didn’t remember the last time you came to town. There was a lot of talk then, but it’d calmed down for the most part. Now it’s stirred up again. People want action.

  “The council intends to give them action. Our scrupulous local government is going to have your property rezoned. Haven Farm will probably be zoned industrial. Residential use will be prohibited. Once that’s done, you can be forced to move. You’ll probably get a fair price for the Farm—but you won’t find any other place to live in this county.”

  “It’s my fault,” he said. “I had the power, and I didn’t know how to use it.” His bones were full to the marrow with old hate and death.

  “What? Are you listening to me? Mr. Covenant, you’re my client—for whatever that’s worth. I don’t intend to stand by and let this happen to you. Sick or not, you’ve got the same civil rights as anyone else. And there are laws to protect private citizens from—persecution. We can fight. Now I want—” Against the metallic background noise of the phone, he could hear her gathering her courage. “I want you to come to my office. Today. We’ll dig into the situation—arrange to appeal the decision, or file suit against it—something. We’ll discuss all the ramifications, and plan a strategy. All right?”

  The sense of deliberate risk in her tone penetrated him for a moment. He said, “I’m a leper. They can’t touch me.”

  “They’ll throw you out on your ear! Damn it, Covenant—you don’t seem to understand what’s going on here. You are going to lose your home. It can be fought—but you’re the client, and I can’t fight it without you.”

  But her vehemence made his attention retreat. Vague recollections of Elena swirled in him as he said, “That’s not a good answer.” Absently he removed the receiver from his ear and returned it to its cradle.

  For a long time, he stood gazing at the black instrument. Something in its irremediable pitch and shape reminded him that his head hurt.

  Something important had happened to him.

  As if for the first time, he heard the lawyer saying, Sunday evening and this morning. He turned woodenly and looked at the wall clock. At first he could not bring his eyes into focus on it; it stared back at him as if it were going blind. But at last he made out the time. The afternoon sun outside his windows confirmed it.

  He had slept for more than thirty hours.

  Elena? he thought. That could not have been Elena on the phone. Elena was dead. His daughter was dead. It was his fault.

  His forehead began to throb. The pain rasped his mind like a bright, brutal light. He ducked his head to try to evade it.

  Elena had not even existed. She had never existed. He had dreamed the whole thing.

  Elena! he moaned. Turning, he wandered weakly back toward his bed.

  As he moved, the fog turned crimson in his brain.

  When he entered the bedroom, his eyes widened at the sight of his pillow; and he stopped. The pillowcase was stained with black splotches. They looked like rot, some species of fungus gnawing away at the white cleanliness of the linen.

  Instinctively he raised a hand to his forehead. But his numb fingers could tell him nothing. The illness that seemed to fill the whole inside of his skull began laughing. His empty guts squirmed with nausea. Holding his forehead in both hands, he lurched into the bathroom.

  In the mirror over the sink, he saw the wound on his forehead.

  For an instant, he saw nothing of himself but the wound. It looked like leprosy, like an invisible hand of leprosy clenching the skin of his forehead. Black crusted blood clung to the ragged edges of the cut, mottling his pale flesh like deep gangrene; and blood and fluid seeped through cracks in the heavy scabs. He seemed to feel the infection festering its way straight through his skull into his brain. It hurt his gaze as if it already reeked of disease and ugly death.

  Trembling fiercely, he spun the faucets to fill the sink. While water frothed into the basin, he hurried to lather his hands.

  But when he noticed his white gold r
ing hanging loosely on his wedding finger, he stopped. He remembered the hot power which had pulsed through that metal in his dream. He could hear Bannor, the Bloodguard who had kept him alive, saying, Save her! You must!—hear himself reply, I cannot! He could hear Hile Troy’s shout, Leper! You’re too selfish to love anyone but yourself. He winced as he remembered the blow which had laid open his forehead.

  Elena had died because of him.

  She had never existed.

  She had fallen into that crevice, fighting desperately against the specter of mad Kevin Landwaster, whom she had Commanded from his grave. She had fallen and died. The Staff of Law had been lost. He had not so much as lifted his hand to save her.

  She had never even existed. He had dreamed her while he lay unconscious after having hit his head on the edge of the coffee table.

  Torn between conflicting horrors, he stared at his wound as if it were an outcry against him, a two-edged denunciation. From the mirror it shouted to him that the prophecy of his illness had come to pass.

  Moaning he pushed away, and rushed back toward the phone. With soapy, dripping hands, he fumbled at it, struggled to dial the number of Joan’s parents. She might be staying with them. She had been his wife; he needed to talk to her.

  But halfway through the number, he threw down the receiver. In his memory, he could see her standing chaste and therefore merciless before him. She still believed that he had refused to talk to her when she had called him Saturday night. She would not forgive him for the rebuff he had helplessly dealt her.

  How could he tell her that he needed to be forgiven for allowing another woman to die in his dreams?

  Yet he needed someone—needed someone to whom he could cry out, Help me!

  He had gone so far down the road to a leper’s end that he could not pull himself back alone.

  But he could not call the doctors at the leprosarium. They would return him to Louisiana. They would treat him and train him and counsel him. They would put him back into life as if his illness were all that mattered, as if wisdom were only skin-deep—as if grief and remorse and horror were nothing but illusions, tricks done with mirrors, irrelevant to chrome and porcelain and clean, white, stiff hospital sheets and fluorescent lights.