Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Page 10

  Under his glare, Lena dropped to the sand, sat on her feet by the graveling, and watched him obliquely from beneath her eyebrows. When she said nothing immediately, he began to pace up and down the swath of sand. As he moved, he turned and pulled fiercely at his wedding ring.

  After a moment, Lena answered with an air of irrelevance, “There is a man who desires to marry me. He is Triock son of Thuler. Though I am not of age he woos me, so that when the time comes I will make no other choice. But if I were of age now I would not marry him. Oh, he is a good man in his way—a good Cattleherd, courageous in defense of his kine. And he is taller than most. But there are too many wonders in the world, too much power to know and beauty to share and to create—and I have not seen the Ranyhyn. I could not marry a Cattleherd who desires no more than a suru-pa-maerl for wife. Rather, I would go to the Loresraat as Atiaran my mother did, and I would stay and not falter no matter what trials the Lore put upon me, until I became a Lord. It is said that such things may happen. Do you think so?”

  Covenant scarcely heard her. He was pacing out his agitation on the sand, enraged and undercut by an unwanted memory of Joan. Beside his lost love, Lena and the silver night of the Land failed of significance. The hollowness of his dream became suddenly obvious to his inner view, like an unveiled wilderland, a new permutation of the desolation of leprosy. This was not real—it was a torment that he inflicted upon himself in subconscious, involuntary revolt against his disease and loss. To himself, he groaned, Is it being outcast that does this? Is being cut off such a shock? By hell! I don’t need any more. He felt that he was on the edge of screaming. In an effort to control himself, he dropped to the sand with his back to Lena and hugged his knees as hard as he could. Careless of the unsteadiness of his voice, he asked, “How do your people marry?”

  In an uncomplicated tone, she said, “It is a simple thing, when a man and a woman choose each other. After the two have become friends, if they wish to marry they tell the Circle of elders. And the elders take a season to assure themselves that the friendship of the two is secure, with no hidden jealousy or failed promise behind them to disturb their course in later years. Then the Stonedown gathers in the center, and the elders take the two in their arms and ask, ‘Do you wish to share life, in joy and sorrow, work and rest, peace and struggle, to make the Land new?’

  “The two answer, ‘Life with life, we choose to share the blessings and the service of the Earth.’ ”

  For a moment, her star-lit voice paused reverently. Then she went on, “The Stonedown shouts together, ‘It is good! Let there be life and joy and power while the years last!’ Then the day is spent in joy, and the new mates teach new games and dances and songs to the people, so that the happiness of the Stonedown is renewed, and communion and pleasure do not fail in the Land.”

  She paused again shortly before continuing: “The marriage of Atiaran my mother with Trell my father was a bold day. The elders who teach us have spoken of it many times. Every day in the season of assurance, Trell climbed the mountains, searching forgotten paths and lost caves, hidden falls and new-broken crevices, for a stone of orcrest—a precious and many-powered rock. For there was a drought upon the South Plains at that time, and the life of the Stonedown faltered in famine.

  “Then, on the eve of the marriage, he found his treasure—a piece of orcrest smaller than a fist. And in the time of joy, after the speaking of the rituals, he and Atiaran my mother saved the Stonedown. While she sang a deep prayer to the Earth—a song known in the Loresraat but long forgotten among our people—he held the orcrest in his hand and broke it with the strength of his fingers. As the stone fell into dust, thunder rolled between the mountains, though there were no clouds, and one bolt of lightning sprang from the dust in his hand. Instantly the blue sky turned black with thunderheads, and the rain began to fall. So the famine was broken, and the Stonedownors smiled on the coming days like a people reborn.”

  Though he clenched his legs with all his strength, Covenant could not master his dizzy rage. Joan! Lena’s tale struck him like a mockery of his pains and failures.

  I can’t—

  For a moment, his lower jaw shuddered under the effort he made to speak. Then he leaped up and dashed toward the river. As he covered the short distance, he bent and snatched a stone out of the sand. Springing onto the promontory, he hurled the stone with all the might of his body at the water.

  Can’t—!

  A faint splash answered him, but at once the sound died under the heedless plaint of the river, and the ripples were swept away.

  Softly at first, Covenant said to the river, “I gave Joan a pair of riding boots for a wedding present.” Then, shaking his fists wildly, he shouted, “Riding boots! Does my impotence surprise you?!”

  Unseen and uncomprehending, Lena arose and moved toward Covenant, one hand stretched out as if to soothe the violence knotted in his back. But she paused a few steps away from him, searching for the right thing to say. After a moment, she whispered, “What happened to your wife?”

  Covenant’s shoulders jerked. Thickly he said, “She’s gone.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Not her—me. She left me. Divorced. Terminated. When I needed her.”

  Indignantly Lena wondered, “Why would such a thing happen while there is life?”

  “I’m not alive.” She heard fury climbing to the top of his voice. “I’m a leper. Outcast unclean. Lepers are ugly and filthy. And abominable.”

  His words filled her with horror and protest. “How can it be?” she moaned. “You are not—abominable. What world is it that dares treat you so?”

  His muscles jumped still higher in his shoulders, as if his hands were locked on the throat of some tormenting demon. “It’s real. That is reality. Fact. The kind of thing that kills you if you don’t believe it.” With a gesture of rejection toward the river, he gasped, “This is a nightmare.”

  Lena flared with sudden courage. “I do not believe it. It may be that your world—but the Land—ah, the Land is real.”

  Covenant’s back clenched abruptly still, and he said with preternatural quietness, “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”

  His ominous tone startled her, chilled her. For an instant, her courage stumbled; she felt the river and the ravine closing around her like the jaws of a trap. Then Covenant whirled and struck her a stinging slap across the face.

  The force of the blow sent her staggering back into the light of the graveling. He followed quickly, his face contorted in a wild grin. As she caught her balance, got one last, clear, terrified look at him, she felt sure that he meant to kill her. The thought paralyzed her. She stood dumb and helpless while he approached.

  Reaching her, he knotted his hands in the front of her shift and rent the fabric like a veil. She could not move. For an instant, he stared at her, at her high, perfect breasts and her short slip, with grim triumph in his eyes, as though he had just exposed some foul plot. Then he gripped her shoulder with his left hand and tore away her slip with his right, forcing her down to the sand as he uncovered her.

  Now she wanted to resist, but her limbs would not move; she was helpless with anguish.

  A moment later, he dropped the burden of his weight on her chest, and her loins were stabbed with a wild, white fire that broke her silence, made her scream. But even as she cried out she knew that it was too late for her. Something that her people thought of as a gift had been torn from her.

  But Covenant did not feel like a taker. His climax flooded him as if he had fallen into a Mithil of molten fury. Suffocating in passion, he almost swooned. Then time seemed to pass him by, and he lay still for moments that might have been hours for all he knew—hours during which his world could have crumbled, unheeded.

  At last he remembered the softness of Lena’s body under him, felt the low shake of her sobbing. With an effort, he heaved himself up and to his feet. When he looked down at her in the graveling light, he saw the blood on her loins. Abruptly his head became
giddy, unbalanced, as though he were peering over a precipice. He turned and hurried with a shambling, unsteady gait toward the river, pitched himself flat on the rock, and vomited the weight of his guts into the water. And the Mithil erased his vomit as cleanly as if nothing had happened.

  He lay still on the rock while the exhaustion of his exacerbated nerves overcame him. He did not hear Lena arise, gather the shreds of her clothing, speak, or climb away out of the shattered ravine. He heard nothing but the long lament of the river—saw nothing but the ashes of his burnt-out passion—felt nothing but the dampness of the rock on his cheeks like tears.

  EIGHT: The Dawn of the Message

  The hard bones of the rock slowly brought Thomas Covenant out of dreams of close embraces. For a time, he drifted on the rising current of the dawn—surrounded on his ascetic, sufficient bed by the searching self-communion of the river, the fresh odors of day, the wheeling cries of birds as they sprang into the sky. While his self-awareness, returned, he felt at peace, harmonious with his context; and even the uncompromising hardness of the stone seemed apposite to him, a proper part of a whole morning.

  His first recollections of the previous night were of orgasm, heartrending, easing release and satisfaction so precious that he would have been willing to coin his soul to make such things part of his real life. For a long moment of joy, he re-experienced that sensation. Then he remembered that to get it he had hurt Lena.

  Lena!

  He rolled over, sat up in the dawn. The sun had not yet risen above the mountains, but enough light reflected into the valley from the plains for him to see that she was gone.

  She had left her fire burning in the sand up the ravine from him. He lurched to his feet, scanned the ravine and both banks of the Mithil for some sign of her—or, his imagination leaped, of Stonedownors seeking vengeance. His heart thudded; all those rock-strong people would not be interested in his explanations or apologies. He searched for evidence of pursuit like a fugitive.

  But the dawn was as undisturbed as if it contained no people, no crimes or desires for punishment. Gradually Covenant’s panic receded. After a last look around, he began to prepare for whatever lay ahead of him.

  He knew that he should get going at once, hurry along the river toward the relative safety of the plains. But he was a leper, and could not undertake solitary journeys lightly. He needed to organize himself.

  He did not thing about Lena; he knew instinctively that he could not afford to think about her. He had violated her trust, violated the trust of the Stonedown; that was as close to his last night’s rage as he could go. It was past, irrevocable—and illusory, like the dream itself. With an effort that made him tremble, he put it behind him. Almost by accident on Kevin’s Watch, he had discovered the answer to all such insanity: keep moving, don’t think about it, survive. That answer was even more necessary now. His “Berek” fear of the previous evening seemed relatively unimportant. His resemblance to a legendary hero was only a part of a dream, not a compulsory fact or demand. He put it behind him also. Deliberately he gave himself a thorough scrutiny and VSE.

  When he was sure that he had no hidden injuries, no dangerous purple spots, he moved out to the end of the promontory. He was still trembling. He needed more discipline, mortification; his hands shook as if they could not steady themselves without his usual shaving ritual. But the penknife in his pocket was inadequate for shaving. After a moment, he took a deep breath, gripped the edge of the rock, and dropped himself, clothes and all, into the river for a bath.

  The current tugged at him seductively, urging him to float off under blue skies into a spring day. But the water was too cold; he could only stand the chill long enough to duck and thrash in the stream for a moment. Then he hauled himself onto the rock and stood up, blowing spray off his face. Water from his hair kept running into his eyes, blinding him momentarily to the fact that Atiaran stood on the sand by the graveling. She contemplated him with a grave, firm glance.

  Covenant froze, dripping as if he had been caught in the middle of a flagrant act. For a moment, he and Atiaran measured each other across the sand and rock. When she started to speak, he cringed inwardly, expecting her to revile, denounce, hurl imprecations. But she only said, “Come to the graveling. You must dry yourself.”

  In surprise, he scrutinized her tone with all the high alertness of his senses, but he could hear nothing in it except determination and quiet sadness. Suddenly he guessed that she did not know what had happened to her daughter.

  Breathing deeply to control the labor of his heart, he moved forward and huddled down next to the graveling. His mind raced with improbable speculations to account for Atiaran’s attitude, but he kept his face to the warmth and remained silent, hoping that she would say something to let him know where he stood with her.

  Almost at once, she murmured, “I knew where to find you. Before I returned from speaking with the Circle of elders, Lena told Trell that you were here.”

  She stopped, and Covenant forced himself to ask, “Did he see her?”

  He knew that it was a suspicious question. But Atiaran answered simply, “No. She went to spent the night with a friend. She only called out her message as she passed our home.”

  Then for several long moments Covenant sat still and voiceless, amazed by the implications of what Lena had done. Only called out! At first, his brain reeled with thoughts of relief. He was safe—temporarily, at least. With her reticence, Lena had purchased precious time for him. Clearly the people of this Land were prepared to make sacrifices—

  After another moment, he understood that she had not made her sacrifice for him. He could not imagine that she cared for his personal safety. No, she chose to protect him because he was a Berek-figure, a bearer of messages to the Lords. She did not want his purpose to be waylaid by the retribution of the Stonedown. This was her contribution to the defense of the Land from Lord Foul the Gray Slayer.

  It was a heroic contribution. In spite of his discipline, his fear, he sensed the violence Lena had done herself for the sake of his message. He seemed to see her huddling naked behind a rock in the foothills throughout that bleak night, shunning for the first time in her young life the open arms of her community—bearing the pain and shame of her riven body alone so that he would not be required to answer for it. An unwanted memory of the blood on her loins writhed in him.

  His shoulders bunched to strangle the thought. Through locked teeth, he breathed to himself, I’ve got to go to the Council.

  When he had steadied himself, he asked grimly, “What did the elders say?”

  “There was little for them to say,” she replied in a flat voice. “I told them what I know of you—and of the Land’s peril.

  They agreed that I must guide you to Lord’s Keep. For that purpose I have come to you now. See”—she indicated two packs lying near her feet—“I am ready. Trell my husband has given me his blessing. It grieves me to go without giving my love to Lena my daughter, but time is urgent. You have not told me all your message, but I sense that from this day forward each delay is hazardous. The elders will give thought to the defense of the plains. We must go.”

  Covenant met her eyes, and this time he understood the sad determination in them. She was afraid, and did not believe that she would live to return to her family. He felt a sudden pity for her. Without fully comprehending what he said, he tried to reassure her. “Things aren’t as bad as they might be. A Cavewight has found the Staff of Law, and I gather he doesn’t really know how to use it. Somehow, the Lords have got to get it away from him.”

  But his attempt miscarried. Atiaran stiffened and said, “Then the life of the Land is in our speed. Alas that we cannot go to the Ranyhyn for help. But the Ramen have little countenance for the affairs of the Land, and no Ranyhyn has been ridden, save by Lord or Bloodguard, since the age began. We must walk, Thomas Covenant, and Revelstone is three hundred long leagues distant. Is your clothing dry? We must be on our way.”

  Covenant was re
ady; he had to get away from this place. He gathered himself to his feet and said, “Fine. Let’s go.”

  However, the look that Atiaran gave him as he stood held something unresolved. In a low voice as if she were mortifying herself, she said, “Do you trust me to guide you, Thomas Covenant? You do not know me. I failed in the Loresraat.”

  Her tone seemed to imply not that she was undependable, but that he had the right to judge her. But he was in no position to judge anyone. “I trust you,” he rasped. “Why not? You said yourself—” He faltered, then forged ahead. “You said yourself that I come to save or damn the Land.”

  “True,” she returned simply. “But you do not have the stink of a servant of the Gray Slayer. My heart tells me that it is the fate of the Land to put faith in you, for good or ill.”

  “Then let’s go.” He took the pack that Atiaran lifted toward him and shrugged his shoulders into the straps. But before she put on her own pack, she knelt to the graveling in the sand. Passing her hands over the fire-stones, she began a low humming—a soft tune that sounded ungainly in her mouth, as if she were unaccustomed to it—and under her waving gestures the yellow light faded. In a moment, the stones had lapsed into a pale, pebbly gray, as if she had lulled them to sleep, and their heat dissipated. When they were cold, she scooped them into their pot, covered it, and stored it in her pack.

  The sight reminded Covenant of all the things he did not know about this dream. As Atiaran got to her feet, he said, “There’s only one thing I need. I want you to talk to me—tell me all about the Loresraat and the Lords and everything I might be interested in.” Then because he could not give her the reason for his request, he concluded lamely, “It’ll pass the time.”

  With a quizzical glance at him, she settled her pack on her shoulders. “You are strange, Thomas Covenant. I think you are too eager to know my ignorance. But what I know I will tell you—though without your raiment and speech it would pass my belief to think you an utter stranger to the Land. Now come. There are treasure-berries aplenty along our way this morning. They will serve as breakfast. The food we carry must be kept for the chances of the road.”