Daughter of Regals and Other Tales

  The Wind was brutal to me, battering my head upon the marble, clogging my limbs, tearing my vision to shreds; In fear that I would lose my eyes, I kept my face turned from Thornden’s Mage—turned toward the Creature beating like a holocaust against the blast to devour me. Its great jaws fountained flame in tremendous exhalations; heat slapped repeatedly at me, scorching my cheek, spreading black stains down the side of my robe. Only Brodwick’s force as he strove to prove himself stronger than Scour preserved me from incineration.

  But I did not fear the Dragon. It was a wonder in the world, and the sight of it gave me strength.

  With that strength, my legs thrust me up the steps while my left arm crooked the Scepter and my right hand cupped its end.

  Like water running impossibly, upward, black char spread from step to step as the Dragon loomed over me, howling fire. The gale threatened to burst the ceiling of the hall from its timbers. Nails and pegs and weight could not hold; boards were stripped away into the outer dark. A new sound like a scream from many throats joined the turmoil. Only the Stone itself, immovable within its supports, kept the ordinary wood of the Seat from being swept away in kindling and splinters.

  I had no time to gauge what I would do. The Creature inhaled, fearsome and savage; its next spewing of flame would roast me to the bone. A cry for my father wrung me, but I made no sound that I could hear as I took my last gamble.

  Guiding the Scepter with my left arm, I thrust the Wood upward, forward—toward the Seat.

  At midnight under the full moon on the eve of my twenty-first birthday, I touched the end of the Scepter to the Stone.

  At once ponderous and instant, slow and swift, the shock of that contact began in my left elbow and right hand and spread through me, ripples of passion bringing flesh and muscle and bone to power. Ignited by this unprecedented connection of Stone and Wood and birthright, the blood which the Basilisk-Regal had shed came to life in me. All my weakness was swept away in wild glory. A roar came from me like a tantara—a challenge against every foe and traitor to the realm.

  Bounding from the marble, I turned to my image with flame and claws and tore it from the air, heedless of Scour’s screams. Then I flung myself toward Brodwick until his concentration melted to panic and he stretched himself groveling before me and his Wind was stilled.

  Then I left the hall and went in bright joy and power out into the night.

  Before dawn, when I had measured my wings and my fierce ecstasy across the deep sky—and almost as an afterthought had routed Thornden’s armies among the hills—I returned to the manor and the hall and accepted the homage of the three rulers. Then I dismissed them, along with the rest of my guests. Servants bore away the injured for care, the dead for burial, but I did not leave the hall myself. Sitting upon the Seat in my human form, with my weight resting against the comfortable strength of the Stone, I spoke for some time alone with Mage Ryzel.

  He was plainly astonished by what had transpired— and more than ever shamed by the things he had done in the name of his doubt. But he was a brave man and made no effort to excuse his mistakes—or to abase himself. Instead, he stood before me grasping his Scepter as he had formerly stood before the Phoenix-Regal, my father.

  Gruffly, he said. “My lady, how is this done, that a woman of no great beauty gives a lesson of humbling to a man of no mean knowledge or strength, and the teaching provides him pleasure? You have become a source of pride to the realm.”

  I smiled upon him. My heart was at rest, and my gladness covered all the errors and betrayals of the night. If the three kings had known how little harm I intended toward them, their fear of me would have grown greater still. But to answer the Mage—and to exculpate him to himself—I attempted an explanation.

  “The blood of the last Dragon had sunk deep into the flesh of the Regals. An extraordinary conjunction of powers was required to awaken it. Therefore when I was born, and my father saw that I had no Magic, he procured for you a limb of the Ash, so that it might aid the birth of something new in me—the restoration of the last Dragon to the world, and restitution for the ill deed which was forced upon the Basilisk-Regal.”

  “That much is evident,” replied Ryzel. I was pleased that his manner toward me had changed so little. “But why did the Phoenix-Regal not tell me the purpose of my Scepter, so that I might aid you?”

  “For two reasons.” My father’s dilemma now seemed plain to me. “First, he was uncertain that the blood I had inherited had grown strong enough to be awakened. If it had not, then the one true hope of the realm was that you would betray me.” The Mage began to protest, but I gestured him silent. “The Phoenix-Regal trusted that you would cobble together some manner of alliance after my failure—and that you would find means to preserve my life. There was his hope. If I lived long enough to wed and have a child, the blood of the slain Dragon would grow stronger yet and might be awakened in my child where it had failed in me. This hope he provided by holding secret the purpose of the Scepter.

  “Second, he did not wish the blood awakened, however strong it might be, if I did not merit it enough to discover it for myself and prove worthy. He desired a test for me. If I lacked the need and the will and the passion to find my own way, then I would be a poor Regal. and the realm would be better served by my failure or flight. He sought to instill me with hope,” I mused. It was curious that I did not resent the ordeal my father had required of me. Rather, I relished what he had done— and was grateful. “But for the sake of the realm he could not allow me to rise untested to power.”

  Ryzel absorbed this and nodded. But after a moment’s thought he said, “You surpass me, my lady. I do not yet understand. If you grasped the Phoenix-Regal’s intent so clearly—no, I will not ask why you did not speak of it to me. But why did you command me to stand aside? Had you permitted me to counter Scour and Brodwick, your approach to the Seat would have been free.”

  There I laughed—not at his incomprehension, but at the idea that I had known what I was doing. I had learned that no path of hope existed for me but one; therefore it was hardly surprising that I had chosen that path. But I had not known what would happen. I had known only that I did not mean to fail. The things I knew now had come to me with the transformation of my blood, shedding light in many places where I had been ignorant.

  That point, however, I left unexplained. Instead, I said, “No, Mage. Had you stilled Brodwick and Scour, our plight would have been unaltered. We would simply have had to strive against swords and pikes rather than against magery. Perhaps we would both have been slain. And also,” I said, holding his gaze so that he would understand me, “I desired to spare your life. If I failed, the realm would have no other hope than you.”

  In response, he passed his hand over his eyes and bowed deeply. When he raised his head again, I thought he would say that he had not earned my concern for his life. But he pleased me by dismissing such questions. In his blunt way, he asked, “What will you do now, my lady? Some action must be taken to consolidate your hold upon the realm. And the treacheries of the three rulers merit retribution.”

  I wanted to laugh again for simple happiness; but I restrained myself. Calmly, I replied, “Mage, I believe I will commence a sizable conscription. I will claim all of Thornden’s soldiery. I will demand every blackguard who serves Thone’s machinations. And”—a grin of glee shaped my mouth—”I will call upon every eligible man within a day’s ride of Damia’s allure.

  “These men I will set to work. Much hard labor requires to be done to unify the realm, so that it will be less an uneasy balance of kingdoms and more a secure nation.”

  Ryzel mulled what I was saying; but his eyes did not leave mine. Carefully, he asked, “What labor is that, my lady?”

  I gave him my sweetest smile. “I am certain, Mage that you will think of something.”

  After a moment, he smiled in return.

  Outside the manor, dawn was breaking. When I had dismissed my Mage and counselor, I took on my other form and
went out into the world to make the acquaintance of my fellow Creatures.

  FOREWORD

  GILDEN-FIRE is, in essence, an ‘out-take’ from THE ILLEARTH WAR. For that reason, it is not a complete story. Rather, it describes an episode which occurred to Korik of the Bloodguard and his mission to Seareach during the early days of THE ILLEARTH WAR, after Thomas Covenant’s summoning to the Land but before the commencement of the actual war. This material survived through two drafts of the manuscript, but is entirely absent from the published version of the book.

  On that basis, I think it requires some explanation. As a general rule, I use my out takes for wastepaper. But I’ve made an exception In this case for a variety of reasons.

  Some of them have to do with why GILDEN-FIRE was taken out of THE ILLEARTH WAR in the first place. The version of the manuscript which originally crossed the desk of Lester del Rey at Ballantine Books was 916 pages long — roughly; 261,000 words— That was manifestly too long. With much regret, Lester gave me to understand that I would have to cut 250 pages.

  Well, I’m a notorious over-writer; and I was able to eliminate 100 pages simply by squeezing the prose with more than my usual ruthlessness. But after that I had to make a more difficult decision.

  As it happened, the original version of THE ILLEARTH WAR was organized in four parts rather than the present three. Part II in that version dealt exclusively with Korik’s mission to Seareach; and it eventually provided me with the 150 pages of cuts I still needed. Not because I considered the material to be of secondary importance (I have little sympathy for anyone who considers the fate of the Unhomed, the fidelity of the Bloodguard, and the valour of the Lords to be of secondary importance). On the contrary, I was quite fond of that whole section. No, I put my axe to the roots of my former Part II for reasons of narrative logic.

  From the beginning, that section had been a risky piece of writing. In it, I had used Korik as my viewpoint character.

  For the first time in the trilogy, I had stepped fully away from Thomas Covenant (or any direct link to the ‘real’ world). And that proved to be a mistake. It was crucial to the presentation of Covenant’s character that he had some good reasons for doubting the substantial ‘reality’ of the Land. But all his reasons were undercut when I employed someone like Korik — a character with no bond, however oblique, to Covenant’s world — for a narrative centre. (THE ILLEARTH WAR does contain two chapters from Lord Mhoram’s point of view. But in both cases Mhoram is constantly in the company of either Covenant or Hile Troy. Korik’s mission lacked even that connection to the central assumptions on which LORD FOUL’S BANE and THE ILLEARTH WAR were based.) In using Korik as I had, I had informed the reader that the people of the Land were in fact ‘real’: I had unintentionally denied the logic of Covenant’s Unbelief. Which was already too fragile for its own good.

  Therefore I took the absolutely essential sections of that Part II and recast them as reports which Runnik and Tull brought back to Covenant and Troy — thus preserving the integrity of the narrative perspective from which the story was being viewed. And in the process I achieved the 150 pages of cuts I needed.

  But all of GILDEN-FIRE was lost.

  That does not exactly constitute high tragedy. Cutting is part of writing; and narrative logic is more important than authorial fondness. My point is simply that GILDEN-FIRE was cut, not because it was bad, but because it didn’t fit well enough.

  However, the question remains: if this. material didn’t fit THE ILLEARTH WAR, why am I inflicting it upon the world now?

  The main reason, I suppose, is my aforementioned fondness. I like Korik, Hyrim, and Shetra, and have always grieved over the exigency which required me to reduce their role in the story so drastically. But, in addition, I’ve often felt that the moral dilemma of the Bloodguard is somewhat obscure in the published version of my books; too much of their back-ground was sacrificed when I cut GILDEN-FIRE. In fact, too much development of the people who would eventually have to face the destruction of the Unhomed was sacrificed. (How, for instance, can Lord Hyrim’s achievements be fully understood when so little is known about him?) By publishing GILDEN-FIRE, I’m trying to fill a subtle but real gap in THE ILLEARTH WAR.

  Finally, I should say that I think the logic which originally required me to cut out this material no longer applies. Since it cannot stand on its own as an independent story, GILDEN-FIRE will surely not be read by anyone unfamiliar with ‘The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever’. And those readers know that the question of whether or not the Land is ultimately real’ (whether or not a character like Korik is sufficiently ‘actual’ to serve as a narrative view-point) no longer matters. In reality as in dreams, what matters is the answer we find in our hearts to the test of Despite. By publishing GILDEN-FIRE, I hope to give more substance to the answers Korik, Hyrim, and Shetra found.

  GILDEN-FIRE

  AS SUNRISE ECHOED the fire of farewell which High Lord Elena had launched into the heavens from the watchtower of Revelstone, Korik Bloodguard and his mission to Seareach wheeled their Ranyhyn, tightened their resolve about them, and went running into the east.

  With the new sun in his eyes, Korik could not see clearly. Yet he moved comfortably to the rhythm of Brabha’s strides, faced the prospect ahead without a qualm. He had been riding Brabha for nearly fifty years now; but his experience of Ranyhyn was far longer than that: the great horses of Ra by the score had borne him in turn, one after another as their individual lives ended and their fidelity passed from generation to generation. He knew that the Ranyhyn would not miss their footing. The terrain near Revelstone was much-travelled and reliable; yet even in the cluttered rigour of the Northron Climbs, or in the subtle deceptions of Sarangrave Flat, the Ranyhyn would remain sure-footed. Their instincts were founded on something more constant than the superficial details of hills and plains. They bore Korik’s mission down through the foothills of Revelstone as confidently as if the great horses were part of the ground itself — a part made mobile and distinct by their quicker life-pulse, but still sharing the same bone, the same ancestry, so that no orphaning misstep or betrayal could occur between hoof and earth.

  And around Korik rode his companions, those who shared his mission to the Giants of Seareach: fourteen more Bloodguard and two Lords, Hyrim son of Hoole, and Shetra Verement-mate. The memory of their parting from the people of Revelstone — Shetra’s grief over her separation from her un-Ranyhyn-chosen and self-doubting husband, Hyrim’s astute attempts to probe the difference between what the Bloodguard remembered and what they new, Thomas Covenant’s refusal to share this mission — was vivid to Korik. But more vivid still was the urgent need which gave cause to this journey. Summon or succour. A need so compulsory that it had been given into his hands, to the Bloodguard themselves, rather than to the Lords, so that if Hyrim or Shetra fell their defenders would go on.

  For there had been a special timbre of exigency in Terrel’s silent voice earlier that night as he had sent out his call to First Mark Morin.

  —Summon the High Lord, Terrel had said, following a grim-eyed and haggard Lord Mhoram toward the Close. There is a peril upon the Giants of Seareach. He has seen it.

  Lord Mhoram had seen it. Seer and oracle to the Council, he had described the death of the Unhomed stalking them across all the leagues between Revelstone and Coercri — a death no more distant than a score of days. When the High Lord and all the Council had gathered with him in the Close, he had told them what he had seen. His vision had left them grey with many kinds of dread.

  In this Korik knew the Lords well. With-out sleep or let, he had served the Council in all its manifestations for two millennia: he knew that the pain in Hyrim and Callindrill and Mhoram, the bitten hardness of Shetra and Verement, the wide alarm of the Lords Amatin, Loerya, and Trevor arose from concern for the life-loving Unhomed — a concern as deep as the. ancient friendship and fealty between the Giants and the Land. But Korik also understood the other dreads. Corruption was
mustering war against the Council; and that jeopardy had become so imminent that only scant days ago the High Lord had felt compelled to summon the Unbeliever from his unwilling world. In such a need, all the eyes of the Land naturally turned toward Seareach for assistance. And for three years there had been silence between the Giants and Revelstone.

  A year of silence was not unusual. Therefore the first year had not been questioned. But the second gave birth to anxiety, and so messengers were dispatched to Seareach. None of them returned. In the third year, one Eoman was sent and not seen again. Unwilling to hazard more of the Warward, the High Lord had then commanded the Lords Callindrill and Amatin to carry word of the Land’s need eastward. But hey had been turned back by Sarangrave Flat; and still the silence endured. Thus the Council had already known fear for the Giants as well as for themselves. Lord Mhoram’s vision gave that fear substance.

  The High Lord did not hesitate to conceive aid for the Giants. Summon or succour. But Corruption’s hordes were believed to be marching for the Land’s ruin; and few warriors and little power could be spared from the defence. So the mission was given to the Bloodguard. Given by First Mark Morin to Korik by reason of his rank and years. And by the High Lord to the Lords Hyrim and Shetra: Hyrim son of Hool, a corpulent, humorous, and untried man with an avowed passion for all fleshly comforts and a silent love of Giants; and Shetra Verement-mate, whose pain at her husband’s self-doubt made her as bitter as the hawk she resembled. It was a small force to hurl into the unknown path of Corruption’s malice. No Bloodguard required reminder that there were only two roads to bear the Despiser westward one to the south of Andelain, then northward against Revelstone; the other to the north of Mount Thunder, then westward through Grimmerdhore Forest. And Korik’s way toward Seareach also lay through Grimmerdhore.