Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Read online

  Covenant nodded, and followed her as she began climbing out of the ravine. He was relieved to be moving again, and the distance passed quickly. Soon they were down by the river, approaching the bridge.

  Atiaran strode straight onto the bridge, but when she reached the top of the span she stopped. A moment after Covenant joined her, she gestured north along the Mithil toward the distant plains. “I tell you openly, Thomas Covenant,” she said, “I do not mean to take a direct path to Lord’s Keep. The Keep is west of north from us, three hundred leagues as the eye sees across the Center Plains of the Land. There many people live, in Stonedown and Woodhelven, and it might chance that both road and help could be found to take us where we must go. But we could not hope for horses. They are rare in the Land, and few folk but those of Revelstone know them.

  “It is in my heart that we may save time by journeying north, across the Mithil when it swings east, and so into the land of Andelain, where the fair Hills are the flower of all the beauties of the Earth. There we will reach the Soulsease River, and it may be that we will find a boat to carry us up that sweet stream, past the westland of Trothgard, where the promises of the Lords are kept, to great Revelstone itself, the Lord’s Keep. All travelers are blessed by the currents of the Soulsease, and our journey will end sooner if we find a carrier there. But we must pass within fifty leagues of Mount Thunder—Gravin Threndor.” As she said the ancient name, a shiver seemed to run through her voice. “It is there or nowhere that the Staff of Law has been found, and I do not wish to go even as close as Andelain to the wrong wielder of such might.”

  She paused for a moment, hesitating, then went on: “There would be rue unending if a corrupt Cavewight gained possession of the ring you bear—the evil ones are quick to unleash such forces as wild magic. And even were the Cavewight unable to use the ring, I fear that ur-viles still live under Mount Thunder. They are lore-wise creatures, and white gold would not surpass them.

  “But time rides urgently on us, and we must save it where we may. And there is another reason for seeking the passage of Andelain at this time of year—if we hasten. But I should not speak of it. You will see it and rejoice, if no ill befall us on our way.”

  She fixed her eyes on Covenant, turning all their inward strength on him, so that he felt, as he had the previous evening, that she was searching for his weaknesses. He feared that she would discover his night’s work in his face, and he had to force himself to meet her gaze until she said, “Now tell me, Thomas Covenant. Will you go where I lead?”

  Feeling both shamed and relieved, he answered, “Let’s get on with it. I’m ready.”

  “That is well.” She nodded, started again toward the east bank. But Covenant spent a moment looking down at the river. Its soft plaint sounded full of echoes, and they seemed to moan at him with serene irony, Does my impotence surprise you? A cloud of trouble darkened his face, but he clenched himself, rubbed his ring, and stalked away after Atiaran, leaving the Mithil to flow on its way like a stream of forgetfulness or a border of death.

  As the sun climbed over the eastern mountains, Atiaran and Covenant were moving north, downstream along the river toward the open plains. At first, they traveled in silence. Covenant was occupied with short forays into the hills to his right, gathering aliantha. He found their tangy peach flavor as keenly delicious as before; a fine essence in their juice made hunger and taste into poignant sensations. He refrained from taking all the berries off any one bush he—had to range away from Atiaran’s sternly forward track often to get enough food to satisfy him—and he scattered the seeds faithfully, as Lena had taught him. Then he had to trot to catch up with Atiaran. In this way, he passed nearly a league, and when he finished eating, the valley was perceptibly broader. He made one last side trip—this time to the river for a drink—then hurried to take a position beside Atiaran.

  Something in the set of her features seemed to ask him not to talk, so he disciplined himself to stillness with survival drills. Then he strove to regain the mechanical ticking stride which had carried him so far from Haven Farm. Atiaran appeared resigned to a trek of three hundred leagues, but he was not. He sensed that he would need all his leper’s skills to hike for even a day without injuring himself. In the rhythm of his steps, he struggled to master the unruliness of his situation.

  He knew that eventually he would have to explain his peculiar danger to Atiaran. He might need her help, at least her comprehension. But not yet—not yet. He did not have enough control.

  But after a while, she changed direction, began angling away from the river up into the northeastern foothills. This close to the mountains, the hills were steep and involuted, and she seemed to be following no path. Behind her, Covenant scrambled up and staggered down the rocky, twisting slopes, though the natural lay of the land tried constantly to turn them westward. The sides of his neck started to ache from the weight of his pack, and twitches jumped like incipient cramps under his shoulder blades. Soon he was panting heavily, and muttering against the folly of Atiaran’s choice of directions.

  Toward midmorning, she stopped to rest on the downward curve of a high hill. She remained standing, but Covenant’s muscles were trembling from the exertion, and he dropped to the ground beside her, breathing hard. When he had regained himself a little, he panted, “Why didn’t we go around, north past these hills, then east? Save all this up and down.”

  “Two reasons” she said shortly. “Ahead there is a long file north through the hills—easy walking so that we will save time. And again”—she paused while she looked around—“we may lose something. Since we left the bridge, there has been a fear in me that we are followed.”

  “Followed?” Covenant jerked out. “Who?”

  “I do not know. It may be that the spies of the Gray Slayer are already abroad. It is said that his highest servants, his Ravers, cannot die while he yet lives. They have no bodies of their own, and their spirits wander until they find living beings which they can master. Thus they appear as animals or humans, as chance allows, corrupting the life of the Land. But it is my hope that we will not be followed through these hills. Are you rested? We must go.”

  After adjusting her robe under the straps of her pack, she set off again down the slope. A moment later, Covenant went groaning after her.

  For the rest of the morning, he had to drive himself to persevere in the face of exhaustion. His legs grew numb with fatigue, and the weight on his back seemed to constrict his breathing so that he panted as if he were suffocating. He was not conditioned for such work; lurching unsteadily, he stumbled up and down the hills. Time and again, only his boots and tough trousers saved him from damage. But Atiaran moved ahead of him smoothly, with hardly a wasted motion or false step, and the sight of her drew him onward.

  But finally she turned down into a long ravine that ran north as far as he could see, like a cut in the hills. A small stream flowed down the center of the file, and they stopped beside it to drink, bathe their faces, and rest. This time, they both took off their packs and dropped to the ground. Groaning deeply, Covenant lay flat on his back with his eyes closed.

  For a while he simply relaxed, listened to his own hoarse respiration until it softened and he could hear behind it the wind whistling softly. Then he opened his eyes to take in his surroundings.

  He found himself looking up four thousand feet at Kevin’s Watch.

  The view was unexpected; he sat up as if to look at it more closely. The Watch was just east and south from him, and it leaned out into the sky from its cliff face like an accusing finger. At that distance, the stone looked black and fatal, and it seemed to hang over the file down which he and Atiaran would walk. It reminded him of the Despiser and darkness.

  “Yes,” Atiaran said, “that is Kevin’s Watch. There stood Kevin Landwaster, High Lord and wielder of the Staff, direct descendant of Berek Halfhand, in the last battle against the Gray Slayer. It is said that there he knew defeat, and mad grief. In the blackness which whelmed his heart he
—the most powerful champion in all the ages of the Land—even he, High Lord Kevin, sworn Earthfriend, brought down the Desecration, the end of all things in the Land for many generations. It is not a good omen that you have been there.”

  As she spoke, Covenant turned toward her, and saw that she was gazing, not up at the rock, but inward, as if she were considering how badly she would have failed in Kevin’s place. Then, abruptly, she gathered herself and stood up. “But there is no help for it,” she said. “Our path lies under the shadow of the Watch for many leagues. Now we must go on.” When Covenant moaned, she commanded, “Come. We dare not go slowly, for fear that we will be too late at the end. Our way is easier now. And if it will help your steps, I will talk to you of the Land.”

  Reaching for his pack, Covenant asked, “Are we still being followed?”

  “I do not know. I have neither heard nor seen any sign. But my heart misgives me. I feel some wrong upon our path this day.”

  Covenant pulled on his pack and staggered wincing to his feet. His heart misgave him also, for reasons of its own. Here under Kevin’s Watch, the humming wind sounded like the thrum of distant vulture wings. Settling the pack straps on his raw shoulders, he bent under the weight, and went with Atiaran down the bottom of the file.

  For the most part, the cut was straight and smooth-floored, though never more than fifteen feet across. However, there was room beside the narrow stream for Atiaran and Covenant to walk together. As they traveled, pausing at every rare aliantha to pick and eat a few berries, Atiaran sketched in a few of the wide blanks in Covenant’s knowledge of the Land.

  “It is difficult to know how to speak of it,” she began. “Everything is part of everything, and each question which I can answer raises three more which I cannot. My lore is limited to what all learn quickly in their first years in the Loresraat. But I will tell you what I can.

  “Berek Heartthew’s son was Damelon Giantfriend, and his son was Loric Vilesilencer, who stemmed the corruption of the Demondim, rendering them impotent.” As she spoke, her voice took on a cadence that reminded Covenant of her singing. She did not recite dry facts; she narrated a tale that was of sovereign importance to her, to the Land. “And Kevin, whom we name Landwaster more in pity than in condemnation of his despair, was the son of Loric, and High Lord in his place when the Staff was passed on. For a thousand years, Kevin stood at the head of the Council, and he extended the Earthfriendship of the Lords beyond anything known before in the Land, and he was greatly honored.

  “In his early years, he was wise as well as mighty and knowledgeable. When he saw the first hints that the ancient shadow was alive, he looked far into the chances of the future, and what he saw gave him cause to fear. Therefore he gathered all his Lore into Seven Wards—

  Seven Wards of ancient Lore

  For Land’s protection, wall and door—

  and hid them, so that his knowledge would not pass from the Land even if he and the Old Lords fell.

  “For many many long years the Land lived on in peace. But during that time, the Gray Slayer rose up in the guise of a friend. In some way, the eyes of Kevin were blinded, and he accepted his enemy as a friend and Lord. And for that reason, the Lords and all their works passed from the Earth.

  “But when Kevin’s betrayal had brought defeat and Desolation, and the Land had lain under the bane for many generations, and had begun to heal, it called out to the people who lived in hiding in the Wastes and the Northron Climbs. Slowly they returned. As the years passed, and the homes and villages became secure, some folk traveled, exploring the Land in search of half-remembered legends. And when they finally braved Giant Woods, they came to the old land of Seareach, and found that the Giants, Rockbrothers of the people of the Land, had survived the Ritual of Desecration.

  “There are many songs, old and new, praising the fealty of the Giants—with good reason. When the Giants learned that people had returned to the Land, they began a great journey, sojourning over all the Land to every new Stonedown and Woodhelven, teaching the tale of Kevin’s defeat and renewing the old Rockbrotherhood. Then, taking with them those people who chose to come, the giants ended their journey at Revelstone, the ageless castle-city which they had riven out of the rock of the mountain for High Lord Damelon, as surety of the bond between them.

  “At Revelstone, the Giants gave a gift to the gathered people. They revealed the First Ward, the fundamental store of the beginnings of Kevin’s Lore. For he had trusted it to the Giants before the last battle. And the people accepted that Ward and consecrated themselves, swearing Earthfriendship and loyalty to the Power and beauty of the Land.

  “One thing more they swore—Peace, a calmness of self to protect the Land from destructive emotions like those that maddened Kevin. For it was clear to all there gathered that power is a dreadful thing, and that the knowledge of power dims the seeing of the wise. When they beheld the First Ward, they feared a new Desecration. Therefore they swore to master the Lore, so that they might heal the Land—and to master themselves, so that they would not fall into the anger and despair which made Kevin his own worst foe.

  “These oaths were carried back to all the people of the Land, and all the people swore. Then the few who were chosen at Revelstone for the great work took the First Ward to Kurash Plenethor, Stricken Stone, where the gravest damage of the last battle was done. They named the land Trothgard, as a token of their promise of healing, and there they founded the Loresraat—a place of learning where they sought to regain the knowledge and power of the Old Lords, and to train themselves in the Oath of Peace.”

  Then Atiaran fell silent, and she and Covenant walked down the file in stillness textured by the whispering of the stream and by the occasional calls of the birds. He found that her tale did help him to keep up their pace. It caused him to forget himself somewhat, forget the raw ache of his shoulders and feet. And her voice seemed to give him strength; her tale was like a promise that any exhaustion borne in the Land’s service would not be wasted.

  After a time, he urged her to continue. “Can you tell me about the Loresraat?”

  The bitter vehemence of her reply surprised him. “Do you remind me that I am of all people the least worthy to talk of these matters? You, Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder—do you reproach me?”

  He could only stare dumbly at her, unable to fathom the years of struggling that filled her spacious eyes.

  “I do not need your reminders.”

  But a moment later she faced forward again, her expression set to meet the north. “Now you reproach me indeed,” she said. “I am too easily hurt that the whole world knows what I know so well myself. Like a guilty woman, I fail to believe the innocence of others. Please pardon me—you should receive better treatment than this.”

  Before he could respond, she forged ahead. “In this way I describe the Loresraat. It stands in Trothgard in the Valley of Two Rivers, and it is a community of study and learning. To that place go all who will, and there they consecrate themselves to Earthfriendship and the Lore of the Old Lords.

  “This Lore is a deep matter, not mastered yet despite all the years and effort that have been given to it. The chiefest problem is translation, for the language of the Old Lords was not like ours, and the words which are simple at one place are difficult at another. And after translation, the Lore must be interpreted, and then the skills to use it must be learned. When I”—she faltered briefly—“when I studied there, the Lorewardens who taught me said that all the Loresraat had not yet passed the surface of Kevin’s mighty knowledge. And that knowledge is only a seventh part of the whole, the First Ward of Seven.”

  Covenant heard an unwitting echo of Foul’s contempt in her words, and it made him listen to her still more closely.

  “Easiest of translation,” she went on, “has been the Warlore, the arts of battle and defense. But there much skill is required. Therefore one part of the Loresraat deals solely with those who would follow the Sword, and join the Warwar
d of Lord’s Keep. But there have been no wars in our time, and in my years at the Loresraat the Warward numbered scarcely two thousand men and women.

  “Thus the chief work of the Loresraat is in teaching and studying the language and knowledge of the Earthpower. First, the new learners are taught the history of the Land, the prayers and songs and legends—in time, all that is known of the Old Lords and their struggles against the Gray Slayer. Those who master this become Lorewardens. They teach others, or search out new knowledge and power from the First Ward. The price of such mastery is high—such purity and determination and insight and courage are required by Kevin’s Lore—and there are some,” she said as if she were resolved not to spare her own feelings, “who cannot match the need. I failed when that which I learned made my heart quail—when the Lorewardens led me to see, just a little way, into the Despite of the Gray Slayer. That I could not bear, and so I broke my devotion, and returned to Mithil Stonedown to use the little that I knew for my people. And now, when I have forgotten so much, my trial is upon me.”

  She sighed deeply, as if it grieved her to consent to her fate. “But that is no matter. In the Loresraat, those who follow and master both Sword and Staff, who earn a place in the Warward and among the Lorewardens, and who do not turn away to pursue private dreams in isolation, as do the Unfettered—those brave hearts are named Lords, and they join the Council which guides the healing and protection of the Land. From their number, they choose the High Lord, to act for all as the Lore requires:

  And one High Lord to wield the Law

  To keep all uncorrupt Earth’s Power’s core.

  “In my years at the Loresraat, the High Lord was Variol Tamarantha-mate son of Pentil. But he was old, even for a Lord, and the Lords live longer than other folk—and our Stonedown has had no news of Revelstone or Loresraat for many years. I do not know who leads the Council now.”