The Power That Preserves t1cotc-3 Page 4

  Intuitively, by steps which he could hardly articulate, Elena’s marrowmeld sculpture had taught him the secret of the Ritual of Desecration.

  He felt that there was enough hope and fear in the knowledge to last him a lifetime.

  In the back of his mind, he believed that Bannor had wanted him to have this knowledge and had not been able to utter it directly. The Bloodguard Vow had restricted Bannor in so many ways. But during the single year of his tenure as First Mark, he had expressed more than any Bloodguard before him his solicitude for the survival of the Lords.

  High Lord Mhoram winced unconsciously at the memory. The secret he now held had been expensive in more ways than one.

  There was hope in the knowledge because it answered the quintessential failure which had plagued the new Lords from the beginning-from the days in which they had accepted the First Ward of Kevin’s Lore from the Giants, and had sworn the Oath of Peace. If it were used, the knowledge promised to unlock the power which had remained sealed in the Wards despite the best efforts of so many generations of Lords and students at the Loresraat. It promised mastery of Kevin’s Lore. It might even show ur-lord Thomas Covenant how to use the wild magic in his white gold ring.

  But Mhoram had learned that the very thing which made Kevin’s Lore powerful for good also made it powerful for ill. If Kevin son of Loric had not had that particular capacity for power, he would not have been able to Desecrate the Land.

  If Mhoram shared his knowledge, any Lord who wished to reinvoke the Ritual would not be forced to rely upon an instinctive distrust of life.

  That knowledge violated the Oath of Peace. To his horror, Mhoram had come to perceive that the Oath itself was the essential blindness, the incapacity which had prevented the new Lords from penetrating to the heart of Kevin’s Lore. When the first new Lords, and all the Land with them, had taken the Oath, articulated their highest ideal and deepest commitment by forswearing all violent, destructive passions, all human instincts for murder and ravage and contempt-when they had bound themselves with the Oath, they had unwittingly numbed themselves to the basic vitality of the Old Lords’ power. Therefore High Lord Mhoram feared to share his secret. It was a strength which could only be used if the wielders denied the most basic promise of their lives. It was a weapon which could only be used by a person who had cast down all defences against despair.

  And the temptation to use that weapon would be strong, perhaps irrefusable. Mhoram did not need oracular dreams to foresee the peril which Lord Foul the Despiser was preparing for the defenders of the Land. He could feel it in the frigid winter wind. And he knew that Trothgard was already under attack. The siege of Revelwood was under way even while he sat in his private quarters, staring morosely at a marrowmeld sculpture.

  He could taste in his own mouth the desperation which had led High Lord Kevin to Kiril Threndor and the Ritual of Desecration. Power was dreadful and treacherous. When it was not great enough to accomplish its wielder’s desires, it turned against the hands which held it. High Lord Elena’s fate only repeated the lesson of Kevin Landwaster; he had possessed far more power than the new Lords could ever hope for, now that the Staff of Law was gone; and all his might had achieved nothing but his own ineluctable despair and the ruin of the Land. Mhoram feared to share that danger by revealing his secret. He was appalled to think he was in such peril himself.

  Yet this withholding of knowledge ran against every grain of his character. He believed intensely that the refusal to share knowledge demeaned both the denier and the denied. By keeping the secret to himself, he prevented Callindrill and Amatin and Trevor and Loerya and every Lorewarden or student of the Staff from finding within themselves the strength to refuse Desecration; he placed himself falsely in the position of a judge who had weighed them and found them wanting. For this reason ten years ago he had argued passionately against the Council’s decision to withhold from Hile Troy the knowledge of Elena’s parentage. That decision had lessened Troy’s control over his own fate. Yet how could he, Mhoram, bear the responsibility of sharing his secret if that sharing led to the Land’s destruction? Better that the evil should be done by the Despiser than by a Lord.

  When he heard the abrupt knock at his door, he said, “Enter,” at once. He was expecting a message, and he knew from the sound of the knock who his visitor was. He did not look up from his contemplation of the sculpture as Warmark Quaan strode into the chamber and presented himself at the table.

  But Quaan remained silent, and Mhoram sensed that the old Warmark was waiting to meet his gaze. With an inward sigh, the High Lord raised his head. In Quaan’s age-and sun-weathered face, he read that the news was not what they had hoped it would be.

  Mhoram did not offer Quaan a seat; he could see that the Warmark preferred to stand. They had sat together often enough in the past. After all the experiences they had shared, they were old comrades-though Quaan, who was twenty years younger than Mhoram, looked twenty years older. And the High Lord frequently found Quaan’s blunt, soldierly candour soothing. Quaan was a follower of the Sword who had no desire to know any secrets of the Staff.

  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 Centre 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 defence, 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 signalled 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 Howards which survived have been increased to twenty-five. We have brought the people of the Centre Plains here, out of Satansfist’s way. We have stored food, weapons, supplies. The Grey 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 yajna 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 Grey 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 travelled 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 Banner 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 sombreness, 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 centre 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, fibres’ are consumed. Callindrill fights. Fights! Screams-the warriors scream. The south hall burns! Ah
, my home!”

  Grimly, Mhoram clenched his fist around the centre 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.