White Gold Wielder Read online

  Then like a quick touch of ice he realized that she had not come here to question him simply because the First desired a destination. She wants to know where we’re going. Her father had killed himself and blamed her for it; and she had killed her mother with her own hands; and now his, Covenant’s, death seemed as certain as the Desecration of the Earth. But those things served only to give her the purpose he had lost. She was wearing her old severity now—the same rigid self-punishment and determination with which she had defied him from the moment of their first meeting. Yet the fierce fire in her eyes was new. And he recognized it. It was the unanswered anger of her grief, and it swept all costs aside in its desire for battle.

  You’ve decided to give up?

  Her demand made his failure as acute as agony. He could have shouted, I don’t have any choice! He beat me! There’s nothing I can do!

  But he knew better. He was a leper and knew better. Leprosy itself was defeat, complete and incurable. Yet even lepers had reasons to go on living. Atiaran had told him that it was the task of the living to give meaning to the sacrifices of the dead; but now he saw that the truth went further: to give meaning to his own death. And to the prices the people he loved had already paid.

  In the name of Linden’s harsh insistence, he sat up in the hammock and asked hoarsely, “What do you want?”

  His response seemed to steady her. The bitter pressure of her loss eased somewhat. In a hard voice, she said, “I want you to go back to the Land. To Revelstone. And stop the clave. Put out the Banefire.” He drew a hissing breath at the sheer audacity of what she required; but she went on without heeding him, “If you do that, the Sunbane’ll slow down. Maybe it’ll even recede. That’ll give us time to look for a better answer.”

  Then she surprised him again by faltering. She did not face him as she concluded, “Maybe I don’t care about the Land the way you do. I was too scared to go into Andelain. I’ve never seen what it used to be like. But I know sickness when I see it. Even if I weren’t a doctor, I’d have the Sunbane carved on me in places where I’ll never be able to forget it. I want to do something about that. I don’t have anything else. The only way I can fight is through you.”

  As she spoke, echoes of power capered in Covenant’s veins. He heard what she was saying; but his fear took him back to the beginning. Stop the Clave? Put out the Banefire? In blunt alarm, he replied, “That’ll be a lot of fun. What in hell makes you believe I can even think about things like that without endangering the Arch?”

  She met him with a sour smile, humorless and certain. “Because you know how to restrain yourself now. I felt it—when you called back all that wild magic and used it to send me away. You’re more dangerous now than you’ve ever been. To Lord Foul.”

  For a moment, he held the look she gave him. But then his eyes fell. No. It was still too much: he was not ready. The ruin of his life was hardly a day old. How was it possible to talk about fighting, when the Despiser had already defeated him? He had only one power, and it had been transformed by venom and falsehood into a graver threat than any Sunbane. What she wanted was madness. He did not have it in him.

  Yet he had to make some reply. She had borne too many burdens for him. And he loved her. She had the right to place demands upon him.

  So he groped in bitter shame for a way out, for something he might say or do which would at least postpone the necessity of decision. Still without meeting Linden’s stare, he muttered sourly, “There’re too many things I don’t understand. I need to talk to Findail.”

  He thought that would deflect her. From the moment when the Appointed of the Elohim had first attached himself to the Search, he had never come or gone at any behest but that of his own secret wisdom or cunning. Yet if anyone possessed the knowledge to win free of this defeat, surely his people did. And surely also he would not come here simply because the Unbeliever asked for him? Covenant would gain at least that much respite while Linden tried to persuade Findail.

  But she did not hesitate—and did not leave the cabin. Turning to face the prow, she rasped the name of the Appointed stridently, as if she expected to be obeyed.

  Almost at once, the sunlight seemed to condense against the wall; and Findail came flowing out of the stone into human form as though he had been waiting there for her call.

  His appearance was unchanged: behind his creamy mantle and unkempt silver hair, within his bruised yellow eyes, he looked like an incarnation of all the world’s misery, an image of every hurt and stress that did not touch his tranquil and self-absorbed people. Where they were deliberately graceful and comely, be was haggard and pain-carved. He appeared to be their antithesis and contradiction—a role which appalled him.

  Yet something must have changed for him. Before the crisis of the One Tree, he would not have answered any summons. But his manner remained as distant and disapproving as ever. Though he nodded an acknowledgment to Linden, his voice held a note of reproof. “I hear you. Vehemence is not needful.”

  His tone made no impression on Linden. Bracing her fists on her hips, she addressed him as if he had not spoken. “This has gone on long enough,” she said stiffly. “Now we need answers.”

  Findail did not glance at Covenant. In Elemesnedene, the Elohim had treated Covenant as if he were of no personal importance; and now the Appointed seemed to take that stance again. He asked Linden, “Is it the ring-wielder’s intent to surrender his ring?”

  At once, Covenant snapped, “No!” Refusals ran in him like echoes of old delirium. Never give him the ring. Never. It was all that remained to him.

  “Then,” Findail sighed, “I must answer as I may, hoping to persuade him from his folly.”

  Linden glanced up at Covenant, looking for his questions. But he was too close to his internal precipice: he could not think clearly. Too many people wanted him to surrender his ring. It was the only thing which still wedded him to life, made his choices matter. He did not respond to Linden’s gaze.

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, gauged his condition. Then, as if she were wrenching herself back from a desire to comfort him, she turned away, faced Findail again.

  “Why—?” She spoke with difficulty, wrestling words past a knot in her chest. “I hardly know where to begin. There’s so much—Why did you people do it?” Abruptly her voice became stronger, full of indignation she had never been able to forget. “What in God’s name did you think you were doing? All he wanted was the location of the One Tree. You could’ve given him a straight answer. But instead you locked him in that silence of yours.” They had imposed a stasis upon his mind. If Linden had not risked herself to rescue him, he would have remained an empty husk until he died, blank of thought or desire. And the price she had paid for that rescue—! Her outrage pulled him into focus with her as she concluded, “You’re responsible for this. How can you stand to live with yourself?”

  Findail’s expression turned into a glower. As soon as she stopped, he replied, “Does it appear to you that I am made glad by the outcome of my Appointment? Is not my life at hazard as much as yours? Yes, as much and more, for you will depart when your time is ended, but I must remain and bear the cost. The fault is not mine.”

  Linden started to protest; but the gathering sadness in his tone halted her. “No, do not rail against me. I am the Appointed, and the burden of what you do falls to me.

  “I do not deny that the path we chose was harsh to the ring-wielder. But are you truly unable to see in this matter? You are the Sun-Sage. He is not. Yet the wild magic which is the crux of the Arch of Time is his to wield, not yours. There lies the hand of evil upon the Earth—and also upon the Elohim, who are the Earth’s Würd.

  “You have said that we serve the evil which you name Lord Foul the Despiser. That is untrue. If you mislike my word, consider other knowledge. Would this Despiser have sent his servant the Raver against you in the storm, when already a servant such as myself stood among you? No. You cannot credit it. Yet I must say to you openly that there is a s
hadow upon the hearts of the Elohim. It is seen in this, that we were able to conceive no path of salvation which would spare you.

  “You have not forgotten that there were those among us who did not wish to spare you.

  “Surely it is plain that for us the easiest path lay in the simple wresting from him of the ring. With wild magic could we bid any Despite defiance. Then for beings such as we are it would be no great task to achieve the perfection of the Earth. Yet that we did not do. Some among us feared the arrogance of such power, when a shadow plainly lay upon our hearts. And some saw that the entire price of such an act would fall upon you atone. You would be lost to yourselves, deprived of meaning and value. Perhaps the meaning and value of the Earth would be diminished as well.

  “Therefore we chose a harder path—to share with you the burden of redemption and the risk of doom. The ring-wielder we silenced, not to harm him, but to spare the Earth the ill of power without sight. As that silence preserved him from the malice of Kasreyn of the Gyre, so also would it have preserved him from the Despiser’s intent at the One Tree. Thus the choice would have fallen to you in the end. His ring you might have taken unto yourself, thereby healing the breach between sight and power. Or perhaps you might have ceded the ring to me, empowering the Elohim to save the Earth after their fashion. Then would we have had no need to fear ourselves, for a power given is altogether different than one wrested away. But whatever your choice, there would have been hope. To accomplish such hope, the price of the ring-wielder’s silence—and of my Appointment—appeared to be neither too great nor too ill.

  “That you took from us. In the dungeon of the Sandhold, you chose the wrong which you name possession above the responsibility of sight, and the hope we strove to nurture was lost.

  “Now I say to you that he must be persuaded to surrender his ring. If he does not, it is certain that he will destroy the Earth.”

  For a moment, Covenant reeled down the path of Findail’s explanation. His balance was gone. To hear his own dread expressed so starkly, like a verdict! But when he turned toward Linden, he saw that she had been hit harder than he. Her face had gone pale. Her hands made small, fugitive movements at her sides. Her mouth tried to form a denial, but she had no strength for it. Confronted by the logic of her actions as Findail saw it, she was horrified. Once again, he placed her at the center, at the cusp of responsibility and blame. And Covenant’s earlier revelation was still too recent: she had not had time to absorb it. She had claimed fault for herself—but had not understood the extent to which she might be accused.

  Ire for her stabilized him. Findail had no right to drop the whole weight of the Earth on her in this way. “It’s not that simple,” he began. He did not know the true name of his objection. But Linden faced him in mute appeal; and he did not let himself falter. “If Foul planned this all along, why did he go to the trouble?” That was not what he needed to ask. Yet he pursued it, hoping it would lead him to the right place. “Why didn’t he just wake up the Worm himself?”

  Findail’s gaze held Linden. When her wide eyes went back to his, he replied, “This Despiser is not mad. Should be rouse the Worm himself, without the wild magic in his hand, would he not also be consumed in the destruction of the world?”

  Covenant shrugged the argument aside, went on searching for the question he needed, the flaw in Findail’s rationalizations. “Then why didn’t you tell us sooner? Naturally you couldn’t condescend to explain anything before she freed me.” With all the sarcasm he could muster, be tried to force the Appointed to look at him, release Linden. “After what you people did, you knew she’d never give you my ring if she understood how much you want it. But later—before we got to the One Tree. Why didn’t you tell us what kind of danger we were in?”

  The Elohim sighed; but still he did not relinquish Linden. “Perhaps in that I erred,” he said softly, “Yet I could not turn aside from hope. It was my hope that some access of wisdom or courage would inspire the ring-wielder to step back from the precipice of his intent.”

  Covenant continued groping. But now he saw that Linden had begun to rally. She shook her head, struggled internally for some way to refute or withstand Findail’s accusation. Her mouth tightened: she looked like she was chewing curses. The sight lit a spark of encouragement in him, made him lean forward to aim his next challenge at the Elohim.

  “That doesn’t justify you,” he grated. “You talk about silencing me as if that was the only decent alternative you had. But you know goddamn well it wasn’t. For one thing, you could’ve done something about the venom that makes me so bloody dangerous.”

  Then Findail did look at Covenant. His yellow gaze snapped upward with a fierceness which jolted Covenant. “We dared not.” His quiet passion left trails of fire across Covenant’s brain. “The doom of this age lies also upon me, but I dare not. Are we not the Elohim, the Würd of the Earth? Do we not read the truth in the very roots of the Rawedge Rim, in the shape of the mountainsides and in the snows which gild the winter peaks? You mock me at your peril. By means of his venom this Despiser attempts the destruction of the Arch of Time, and that is no little thing. But it pales beside the fate which would befall the Earth and all life upon the Earth. were there no venom within you. You conceive yourself to be a figure of power, but in the scale of worlds you are not. Had this Despiser’s lust for the Illearth Stone not betrayed him, enhancing you beyond your mortal stature, you would not have stood against him so much as once. And he is wiser now, with the wisdom of old frustration, which some name madness.

  “Lacking the venom, you would be too small to threaten him. If he did not seek you out for his own pleasure, you would wander the world without purpose, powerless against him. And the Sunbane would grow. It would grow, devouring every land and sea in turn until even Elemesnedene itself had fallen, and still it would grow, and there would be no halt to it. Seeing no blame for yourself, you would not surrender your ring. Therefore he would remain trapped within the Arch. But no other stricture would limit his victory. Even we, the Elohim, would in time be reduced to mere playthings for his mirth. While Time endured, the Desecration of the world would not end at all.

  “Therefore,” the Appointed articulated with careful intensity, “we bless the frustration or madness which inspired the gambit of this venom. Discontented in the prison of the Earth, the Despiser has risked his hope of freedom in the venom which gives you such might. It is our hope also. For now the blame is plain. Since you are blind in other ways, we must pray that guilt will drive you to the surrender which may save us.”

  The words went through Covenant like a shot. His arguments were punctured, made irrelevant. Findail admitted no alternative to submission except the Ritual of Desecration—the outright destruction of the Earth to spare it from Lord Foul’s power. This was Kevin Landwaster’s plight on a scale which staggered Covenant, appalled him to the marrow of his bones. If he did not give up his ring, how could he bear to do anything but ruin the world himself in order to foil the eternal Sunbane of the Despiser?

  Yet he could not surrender his ring. The simple thought was immediately and intimately terrible to him. That metal circle meant too much: it contained every hard affirmation of life and love that he had ever wrested from the special cruelty of his loneliness, his leper’s fate. The alternative was better. Yes. To destroy. Or to risk destroying in any kind of search for a different outcome.

  His dilemma silenced him. In his previous confrontation with Lord Foul, he had found and used the quiet center of his vertigo, the still point of strength between the contradictions of his plight; but now there seemed to be no center, no place on which he could stand to affirm both the Earth and himself. And the necessity of choice was dreadful.

  But Linden had taken hold of herself again. The conceptions which hurt her most were not the ones which pierced Covenant; and he had given her a chance to recover. The look she cast at him was brittle with stress; but it was alert once more, capable of reading his dismay. For an instant,
empathy focused her gaze. Then she swung back toward the Appointed, and her voice bristled dangerously.

  “That’s just speculation. You’re afraid you might lose your precious freedom, so you’re trying to make him responsible for it. You still haven’t told us the truth.”

  Findail faced her; and Covenant saw her flinch as if the Elohim’s eyes had burned her. But she did not stop.

  “If you want us to believe you, tell us about Vain.”

  At that, Pindail recoiled.

  Immediately she went after him. “First you imprisoned him, as if he was some kind of crime against you. And you tried to trick us about it, so we wouldn’t know what you were doing. When he escaped, you tried to kill him. Then, when he and Seadreamer found you aboard the ship, you spoke to him.” Her expression was a glower of memory. “You said, ‘Whatever else you may do, that I will not suffer.’ ”

  The Appointed started to reply; but she overrode him. “Later you said, ‘Only he whom you name Vain has it within him to expell me. I would give my soul that he should do so.’ And since then you’ve hardly been out of his sight—except when you decide to run away instead of helping us.” She was unmistakably a woman who had learned something about courage. “You’ve been more interested in him than us from the beginning. Why don’t you try explaining that for a change?”

  She brandished her anger at the Elohim; and for a moment Covenant thought Findail would answer. But then his grief-ensnared visage tightened. In spite of its misery, his expression resembled the hauteur of Chant and Infelice as he said grimly, “Of the Demondim-spawn I will not speak.”

  “That’s right,” she shot back at him at once. “Of course you won’t. If you did, you might give us a reason to do some hoping of our own. Then we might not roll over and play dead the way you want.” She matched his glare; and in spite of all his power and knowledge she made him appear diminished and judged. Sourly she muttered, “Oh, go on. Get out of here. You make my stomach hurt.”