Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Read online

  But he did not forget who his host was, what had happened between them.

  Leaving the springwine with Covenant, Baradakas cleared away the remains of the meal. When he returned after storing his food in the far room, he said, “Now, Unbeliever. In what other way may I give you comfort?”

  Covenant took a deep draft of springwine, then replied as casually as he could, “Give an answer. You were ready to split my head open—back there. And it looked as if you got quite a jolt from that—from that High Wood. Why did you invite me here?”

  For a moment, Baradakas hesitated, as if pondering how much he should say. Then he reached into his back room, picked up a smooth staff nearly six feet long, and sat down on the bed across from Covenant. As he spoke, he began polishing the white wood of the staff with a soft cloth. “There are many reasons, Thomas Covenant. You required a place to sleep, and my home is nearer to the heartwood chamber than any other—for one who dislikes heights. And neither you nor I are necessary for the consideration of counsel and help which will be done this night. Atiaran knows the Land—she will say all that need be said concerning your journey. And both Soranal and Llaura are able to give any help she may ask.”

  As he looked across the room at the Hirebrand’s working hands and light, penetrating eyes, Covenant had the odd feeling that his test had been resumed—that the encounter of the lomillialor had only begun Baradakas’ examining. But the springwine unknotted his fears and tensions; he was not anxious. Steadily he said, “Tell me more.”

  “I also intended that my offer of hospitality should be an apology. I was prepared to injure you, and that violation of my Oath of Peace needs reparation. Had you shown yourself to be a servant of the Gray Slayer, it would have sufficed to capture you. And injury might have deprived the Lords of a chance to examine you. So in that way I was wrong. And became more wrong still when you lifted the lomillialor, and its fire struck me. I hope to amend my folly.”

  Covenant recognized the Hirebrand’s frankness, but his sense of being probed sharpened rather than faded. He held his host’s eyes as he said, “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  In an unsurprised tone, Baradakas countered, “Are there other reasons? What do you see in me?”

  “You’re still testing me,” Covenant growled.

  The Hirebrand nodded slowly. “Perhaps. Perhaps I am.” He got to his feet and braced one end of the staff against the floor as he gave a last touch to its polish. Then he said, “See, Thomas Covenant—I have made a staff for you. When I began it, I believed it was for myself. But now I know otherwise. Take it. It may serve you when help and counsel fail.” To the brief question in Covenant’s eyes, he replied, “No, this is not High Wood. But it is good nonetheless. Let me give it to you.”

  Covenant shook his head. “Finish your testing.”

  Suddenly Baradakas raised the staff and struck the wood under his feet a hard blow. For an instant, the entire limb shook as if a gale had come up; the smaller branches thrashed, and the dwelling tossed like a chip on an angry wave. Covenant feared that the tree was falling, and he gripped his chair in apprehension. But almost immediately the violence passed. Baradakas leveled his pale eyes at Covenant and whispered, “Then hear me, Unbeliever. Any test of truth is no greater than the one who gives it. And I have felt your power. In all the memory of the lillianrill, no Hirebrand has ever been struck by the High Wood. We are the friends of the One Tree, not its foes. But beside you I am as weak as a child. I cannot force the truth from you. In spite of my testing, you might be the Gray Slayer himself, come to turn all the life of the Land to ashes.”

  Incensed by the suggestion, Covenant spat, “That’s ridiculous.”

  Baradakas stepped closer, drove his probing gaze deep into Covenant’s eyes. Covenant squirmed; he could feel the Hirebrand exploring parts of him that he wanted to protect, keep hidden. What has that bastard Foul to do with me? he demanded bitterly. I didn’t exactly choose to be his errand boy.

  Abruptly Baradakas’ eyes widened, and he fell back across the room as if he had seen something of astonishing power. He caught himself on the bed, sat there for a moment while he watched his hands tremble on the staff. Then he said carefully, “True. One day I may be wise enough to know what can be relied upon. Now I need time to understand. I trust you, my friend. At the last trial, you will not abandon us to death.

  “Here.” He proffered the staff again. “Will you not accept my gift?”

  Covenant did not reply at once. He was trembling also, and he had to clench himself before he could say without a tremor, “Why? Why do you trust me?”

  The Hirebrand’s eyes gleamed as if he were on the verge of tears, but he was smiling as he said, “You are a man who knows the value of beauty.”

  Covenant stared at that answer for a moment, then looked away. A complex shame came over him; he felt unclean, tainted, in the face of Baradakas’ trust. But then he stiffened. Keep moving. Survive. What does trust have to do with it? Brusquely he reached out and accepted the staff.

  It felt pure in his hands, as if it had been shaped from the healthiest wood by the most loving devotion. He gripped it, scrutinized it, as if it could provide him with the innocence he lacked.

  A short time later, he surprised himself with a wide yawn. He had not realized that he was so tired. He tried to suppress his weariness, but the effort only produced another yawn.

  Baradakas responded with a kindly smile. He left the bed and motioned for Covenant to lie down.

  Covenant had no intention of going to sleep, but as soon as he was horizontal, all the springwine he had consumed seemed to rush to his head, and he felt himself drifting on the high tree breeze. Soon he was fast in slumber.

  He slept soundly, disturbed only by the memory of the Hirebrand’s intense, questioning eyes, and by the sensation that the lomillialor was slipping through his fingers, no matter how hard he clenched it. When he awoke the next morning, his arms ached as if he had been grappling with an angel all night.

  Opening his eyes, he found Atiaran sitting across the room from him, waiting. As soon as she saw that he was awake, she stood and moved closer to him. “Come, Thomas Covenant,” she said. “Already we have lost the dawn of this day.”

  Covenant studied her for a moment. The background of her face held a deepening shadow of fatigue, and he guessed that she had spent much of the night talking with the Heers. But she seemed somehow comforted by what she had shared and heard, and the brightness of her glance was almost optimistic. Perhaps she now had some sort of hope.

  He approved of anything that might reduce her hostility toward him, and he swung out of bed as if he shared her optimism. Despite the soreness of his arms, he felt remarkably refreshed, as if the ambience of the Woodhelven had been exerting its hospitality, its beneficence, to help him rest. Moving briskly, he washed his face, dried himself on a thick towel of leaves, then checked himself for injuries and adjusted his clothing. A loaf lay on the three-legged table, and when he broke off a hunk for his breakfast, he found that it was made of bread and meat baked together. Munching it, he went to look out one of the windows.

  Atiaran joined him, and together they gazed through the branches northward. In the far distance, they saw a river running almost directly east, and beyond it the hills spread on to the horizon. But something more than the river separated these northern hills from those beside which the travelers had been walking since they had left Mithil Stonedown. The land beyond the river seemed to ripple in the morning sunshine, as if the quiet earth were flowing over shoals—as if there the secret rock of the Land ruffled the surface, revealing itself to those who could read it. From his high Woodhelven vantage, Covenant felt he was seeing something that surpassed even his new perceptions.

  “There,” said Atiaran softly, as if she were speaking of a holy place, “there is Andelain. The Hirebrand has chosen his home well for such a view. Here the Mithil River runs east before turning north again toward Gravin Threndor and the Soulsease. And
beyond are the Andelainian Hills, the heart-healing richness of the Land. Ah, Covenant, the seeing of them gives me courage. And Soranal has taught me a path which may make possible my fondest dream—With good fortune and good speed, we may see that which will turn much of my folly to wisdom. We must go. Are you prepared?”

  No, Covenant thought. Not to go climbing around this tree. But he nodded. Atiaran had brought his pack to him, and while she stepped out of the Hirebrand’s home onto the broad branch, he pulled the straps onto his shoulders, ignoring the ache of his arms. Then he took up the staff Baradakas had given him, and braced himself to risk his neck on the descent of the Woodhelven.

  The trunk was only three or four steps away, but the two-hundred-foot drop to the ground made him freeze, hesitate apprehensively while the first reels of vertigo gnawed at his resolve. But as he stood in the Hirebrand’s doorway, he heard the shouting of young voices, and saw children scampering through the branches overhead. Some of them pursued others, and in the chase they sprang from limb to limb as blithely as if the fall were helpless to hurt them.

  The next instant, two children, a boy and a girl, dropped onto the limb before Covenant from a branch nearly twenty feet above. The girl was in merry pursuit of the boy, but he eluded her touch and darted around behind Covenant. From this covert, he shouted gleefully, “Safe! Chase another! I am safe!”

  Without thinking, Covenant said, “He’s safe.”

  The girl laughed, faked a lunge forward, and sprang away after someone else. At once, the boy dashed to the trunk and scurried up the ladder toward higher playgrounds.

  Covenant took a deep breath, clutched the staff for balance, and stepped away from the door. Teetering awkwardly, he struggled to the relative safety of the trunk.

  After that, he felt better. When he slid the staff through his pack straps, he could grip the ladder with both hands, and then the secure touch of the rungs reassured him. Before he had covered half the distance, his heart was no longer pounding, and he was able to trust his hold enough to look about him at the dwellings and people he passed.

  Finally he reached the lowest branches, and followed Atiaran down the stair to the ground. There the Heers were gathered to say their farewells. When he saw Baradakas, Covenant took the staff in his hands to show that he had not forgotten it, and grimaced in response to the Hirebrand’s smile.

  “Well, message-bearers,” said Llaura after a pause, “you have told us that the fate of the Land is on your shoulders, and we believe. It sorrows us that we cannot ease the burden—but we judge that no one can take your place in this matter. What little help we can give we have given. All which remains for us is to defend our homes, and to pray for you. We wish you good speed for the sake of all the Land. And for your own sake we urge you to be in time for the Celebration. There are great omens of hope for any who view that festival.

  “Atiaran Trell-mate, go in Peace and fealty. Remember the path Soranal taught you, and do not turn aside.

  “Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and stranger to the Land—be true. In the hour of darkness, remember the Hirebrand’s staff. Now be on your way.”

  Atiaran replied as formally as if she were completing a ritual. “We go, remembering Soaring Woodhelven for home and help and hope.” She bowed, touching her palms to her forehead and then spreading her arms wide. Uncertainly Covenant followed her example. The Heers returned the heart-opening gesture of farewell with ceremonial deliberateness. Then Atiaran strode off northward, and Covenant scudded along behind her like a leaf in the wake of her determination.

  Neither of them looked back. The rest and restoration of the fair tree village made them brisk, gave them a forward air. They were both in their separate ways eager for Andelain, and they knew that Jehannum had left Soaring Woodhelven toward the east, not the north. They hastened ahead among the richening hills, and reached the banks of the Mithil River early that afternoon.

  They crossed by wading a wide shallows. Before she entered the water, Atiaran removed her sandals, and some half conscious insight urged Covenant to take off his boots and socks, roll up his pant legs. As he smelled the first lush scents of the Hills, he felt somehow that he needed to wade the Mithil barefoot in order to be ready, that the foot-washing of the stream was necessary to transubstantiate his flesh into the keener essence of Andelain. And when he stepped onto the north bank, he found that he could feel its vitality through his feet; now even his soles were sensitive to the Land’s health.

  He so liked the strong sensation of the Hills under his toes that he was loath to put his boots back on, but he denied himself that pleasure so that he would be able to keep up with Atiaran’s pace. Then he followed her along the path which Soranal had taught her—an easy way through the center of Andelain—walked and wondered at the change that had come over the Earth since they had crossed the river.

  He felt the change distinctly, but it seemed to go beyond the details which composed it. The trees were generally taller and broader than their southern relations; abundant and prodigal aliantha sometimes covered whole hillsides with viridian; the rises and vales luxuriated in deep aromatic grass; flowers bobbed in the breeze as spontaneously as if just moments before they had gaily burst from the nurture of the soil; small woodland animals—rabbits, squirrels, badgers, and the like—scampered around, only vaguely remembering that they were wary of humans. But the real difference was transcendent. The Andelainian Hills carried a purer impression of health to all Covenant’s senses than anything else he had experienced. The aura of rightness here was so powerful that he began to regret he belonged in a world where health was impalpable, indefinite, discernible only by implication. For a time, he wondered how he would be able to endure going back, waking up. But the beauty of Andelain soon made him forget such concerns. It was a dangerous loveliness—not because it was treacherous or harmful, but because it could seduce. Before long, disease, VSE, Despite, anger, all were forgotten, lost in the flow of health from one vista to another around him.

  Enclosed in the Hills, surrounded by such tangible and specific vitality, he became more and more surprised that Atiaran did not wish to linger. As they hiked over the lambent terrain, penetrating league after league deeper into Andelain, he wanted to stop at each new revelation, each new valley or avenue or dale, to savor what he saw—grip it with his eyes until it was a part of him, indelible, secure against any coming bereavement. But Atiaran pushed on—arising early, stopping little, hurrying late. Her eyes were focused far away, and the fatigue mounting behind her features seemed unable to reach the surface. Clearly even these Hills paled for her beside her anticipation of the unexplained “Celebration.” Covenant had no choice but to urge himself after her; her will tolerated no delay.

  Their second night away from Soaring Woodhelven was so bright and clear that they did not have to stop with the setting of the sun, and Atiaran kept going until nearly midnight. After supper, Covenant sat for a while looking at the sky and the piquant stars. The aging crescent of the moon stood high in the heavens, and its white sliver sent down only a suggestion of the eldritch light which had illuminated his first night in the Land. Casually he remarked, “The moon’ll be dark in a few days.”

  At that, Atiaran looked at him sharply, as if she suspected that he had discovered some secret of hers. But she said nothing, and he did not know whether she reacted to a memory or to an anticipation.

  The next day began as splendidly as the previous one. Sunshine be-gemmed the dew, sparkled like diamonds among the grass and leaves; air as fresh as the Earth’s first breath carried the tang of aliantha and larch, the fragrance of Gilden and peony, across the Hills. Covenant beheld such things with something like bliss in his heart, and followed Atiaran northward as if he were content. But early in the afternoon something happened which darkened all his joy, offended him to the marrow of his bones. As he traveled down a natural lane between tree-thick hills, walking with a fine sense of the springy grass under his feet, he stepped without warning on a patch of tur
f that felt as dangerous as a pit of quicksand.

  Instinctively he recoiled, jerked back three steps. At once, the threatening sensation vanished. But his nerves remembered it from the sole of his foot up the whole length of his leg.

  He was so surprised, so insulted, that he did not think to call Atiaran. Instead, he cautiously approached the spot on which he had felt the danger, and touched it with one tentative toe. This time, however, he felt nothing but the lush grass of Andelain. Bending down, he went over the grass for a yard in all directions with his hands. But whatever had fired his sense of wrongness was gone now, and after a moment of perplexity he started forward again. At first he took each step gingerly, expecting another jolt. But the earth seemed as full of pure, resonant vitality as before. Shortly he broke into a trot to catch up with Atiaran.

  Toward evening, he felt the sting of wrong again, as if he had stepped in acid. This time, he reacted in violent revulsion; he pitched forward as if diving away from a blast of lightning, and a yell ripped past his teeth before he could stop himself. Atiaran came back to him at a run, and found him pawing over the grass, tearing up the blades in handfuls of outrage.

  “Here!” he gritted, thumping the turf with his fist. “By hell! It was here.”

  Atiaran blinked at him blankly. He jumped to his feet, pointed an accusing finger at the ground. “Didn’t you feel it? It was there. Hellfire!” His finger quivered. “How did you miss it?”

  “I felt nothing,” she replied evenly.

  He shuddered and dropped his hand. “It felt as if I—as if I stepped in quicksand—or acid—or”—he remembered the slain Waynhim—“or murder.”

  Slowly Atiaran knelt beside the spot he indicated. For a moment, she studied it, then touched it with her hands. When she stood up, she said, “I feel nothing—”