Power That Preserves

  “The fool!” Triock barked sharply. “Did he believe he would be permitted to keep it?” But he did not give Covenant time to respond. Quietly again, he asked, “And the Giant?”

  “We were ambushed. He stayed behind—so that Lena and I could get away.”

  A harsh laugh spat between Triock’s teeth. “Faithful to the last,” he gibed. The next instant, a wild sob convulsed him as if his self-control had snapped—as if a frantic grief had burst the bonds which held it down. But immediately he returned to sarcasm. Showing Covenant a flash of his teeth, he sneered, “It is well that I have come.”

  “Well?” Covenant breathed. “Triock, what happened to you?”

  “Well, forsooth.” The man sniffed as if he were fighting tears. “You have lost much time in that place of harm and seduction. With each passing day, the Despiser grows mightier. He straitly binds—” His teeth grinned at Covenant under the shadow of his hood. “Thomas Covenant, your work must be no longer delayed. I have come to take you to Ridjeck Thome.”

  Covenant gazed intensely at the man. A moment passed while he tested his hollow core and found that it remained sure. Then he bent all his attention toward Triock, tried to drive his truncated sight past its limits, its superficiality, so that he might catch some glimpse of Triock’s inner estate. But the winter, and Triock’s distraction, foiled him. He saw the averted face, the rigid flex and claw of the fingers, the baring of the white wet teeth, the turmoil, but he could not penetrate beyond them. Some stark travail was upon the Stonedownor. In sympathy and bafflement and self-defense, Covenant said, “Triock, you’ve got to tell me what happened.”

  “Must I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you threaten me? Will you turn the wild magic against me if I refuse?” Triock winced as if he were genuinely afraid, and an oddly craven grimace flicked like a spasm across his lips. But then he shrugged sharply and turned his back, so that he was facing straight into the wind. “Ask, then.”

  Threaten? Covenant asked Triock’s hunched shoulders. No, no. I don’t want it to happen again. I’ve done enough harm.

  “Ask!”

  “Did you”—he could hardly get the words through his clogged throat—“did you find that Unfettered One?”

  “Yes!”

  “Did he contact Mhoram?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “He did not suffice!”

  The bitterness of the words barked along the bitter wind, and Covenant could only repeat, “Triock, what happened?”

  “The Unfettered One lacked strength to match the lomillialor. He took it from me and could not match it. Yeurquin and Quirrel were lost—more companions lost while you dally and falter!”

  Both lost.

  “I didn’t— How did you find me?”

  “This is expensive blood, Covenant. When will it sate you?”

  Sate me? Triock! The question hurt him, but he endured it. He had long ago lost the right to take umbrage at anything Triock might say. With difficulty, he asked again, “How did you find me?”

  “I waited! Where else could you have gone?”

  “Triock.” Covenant covered himself with the void of his calm and said, “Triock, look at me.”

  “I do not wish to look at you.”

  “Look at me!”

  “I have no stomach for the sight.”

  “Triock!” Covenant placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  Instantly Triock spun and struck Covenant across the cheek.

  The blow did not appear powerful; Triock swung shortly, as if he were trying to pull back his arm. But force erupted at the impact, threw Covenant to the ground several feet away. His cheek stung with a deep pain like vitriol that made his eyes stream. He barely saw Triock flinch, turn and start to flee, then catch himself and stop, waiting across the distance of a dozen yards as if he expected Covenant to hurl a spear through his back.

  The pain roared like a rush of black waters in Covenant’s head, but he forced himself to sit up, ignored his burning cheek, and said quietly, “I’m not going to Foul’s Creche.”

  “Not?” Surprise spun Triock to face Covenant.

  “No.” Covenant was vaguely surprised by his own certitude. “I’m going to cross the river—I’m going to try to go south with the Ramen. They might—”

  “You dare?” Triock yelled. He seemed livid with fury, but he did not advance toward Covenant. “You cost me my love! My comrades! My home! You slay every glad face of my life! And then you say you will deny the one promise which might recompense? Unbeliever! Do you think I would not kill you for such treachery?”

  Covenant shrugged. “Kill me if you want to. It doesn’t make any difference.” The pain in his face interfered with his concentration, but still he saw the self-contradiction behind Triock’s threat. Fear and anger were balanced in the Stonedownor, as if he were two men trapped between flight and attack, straining in opposite directions. Somewhere amid those antagonists was the Triock Covenant remembered. He resisted the roaring in his head and tried to explain so that this Triock might understand.

  “The only way you can kill me is if I’m dying in my own world. You saw me—when you summoned me. Maybe you could kill me. But if I’m really dying, it doesn’t matter whether you kill me or not. I’ll get killed somehow. Dreams are like that.

  “But before you decide, let me try to tell you why—why I’m not going to Foul’s Creche.”

  He got painfully to his feet. He wanted to go to Triock, look deeply into the man’s face, but Triock’s conflicting passions kept him at a distance.

  “I’m not exactly innocent. I know that. I told you it was my fault, and it is. But it isn’t all my fault. Lena and Elena and Atiaran—and Giants and Ranyhyn and Ramen and Bloodguard—and you—it isn’t all my fault. All of you made decisions for yourselves. Lena made her own decision when she tried to save me from punishment—after I raped her. Atiaran made her own decision when she helped me get to Revelstone. Elena made her own decision when she drank the EarthBlood. You made your own decision—you decided to be loyal to the Oath of Peace. None of it is entirely my doing.”

  “You talk as if we exist,” Triock growled bitterly.

  “As far as my responsibility goes, you do. I don’t control my nightmares. Part of me—the part that’s talking—is a victim, as you are. Just less innocent.

  “But Foul has arranged it all. He—or the part of me that does the dreaming—has been arranging everything from the beginning. He’s been manipulating me, and I finally figured out why. He wants this ring—he wants the wild magic. And he knows—knows!—that if he can get me feeling guilty and responsible and miserable enough I’ll try to fight him on his own ground—on his own terms.

  “I can’t win a fight like that. I don’t know how to win it. So he wants me to do it. That way he ends up with everything. And I end up like any other suicide.

  “Look at me, Triock! Look! You can see that I’m diseased. I’m a leper. It’s carved into me so loud anybody could see it. And lepers—commit suicide easily. All they have to do is forget the law of staying alive. That law is simple, selfish, practical caution. Foul’s done a pretty good job of making me forget it—that’s why you might be able to kill me now if you want to. But if I’ve got any choice left, the only way I can use it is by remembering who I am. Thomas Covenant, leper. I’ve got to give up these impossible ideas of trying to make restitution for what I’ve done. I’ve got to give up guilt and duty, or whatever it is I’m calling responsibility these days. I’ve got to give up trying to make myself innocent again. It can’t be done. It’s suicide to try. And suicide for me is the only absolute, perfect way Foul can win. Without it, he doesn’t get the wild magic, and it’s just possible that somewhere, somehow, he’ll run into something that can beat him.

  “So I’m not going—I am not going to Foul’s Creche. I’m going to do something simple and selfish and practical and cautious instead. I’m going to take care of myself as a leper shoul
d. I’ll go into the Plains—I’ll find the Ramen. They’ll take me with them. The Ranyhyn—the Ranyhyn are probably going south already to hide in the mountains. The Ramen will take me with them. Mhoram doesn’t know I’m here, so he won’t be expecting anything from me.

  “Please understand, Triock. My grief for you is—it’ll never end. I loved Elena, and I love the Land. But if I can just keep myself alive the way I should—Foul can’t win. He can’t win.”

  Triock met this speech queerly across the distance between them. His anger seemed to fade, but it was not replaced by understanding. Instead a mixture of cunning and desperation gained the upper hand on his desire to flee, so that his voice held a half-hysterical note of cajolery as he said, “Come, Unbeliever—do not take this choice hastily. Let us speak of it calmly. Let me urge—” He looked around as if in search of assistance, then went on hurriedly, “You are hungry and worn. That Forest has exacted a harsh penance—I see it. Let us rest here for a time. We are in no danger. I will build a fire—prepare food for you. We will talk of this choice while it may still be altered.”

  Why? Covenant wanted to ask. Why have you changed like this? But he already knew too many explanations. And Triock bustled away promptly in search of firewood as if to forestall any questions. The land on this side of the Roamsedge had been wooded at one time, and before long he had collected a large pile of dead brush and bushes, which he placed in the shelter of a hill a short distance from the Ford. All the time, he kept his face averted from Covenant.

  When he was satisfied with his quantity of wood, he stooped in front of the pile with his hands hidden as if for some obscure reason he did not want Covenant to see how he started the fire. As soon as flames had begun to spread through the brush, he positioned himself on the far side of the fire and urged Covenant to approach its warmth.

  Covenant acquiesced gladly enough. His robe could not keep the cold out of his hands and feet; he could hardly refuse a fire. And he could hardly refuse Triock’s desire to discuss his decision. His debt to Triock was large—not easily borne. He sat down within the radiant balm of the fire opposite Triock and silently watched him prepare a meal.

  As he worked, Triock mumbled to himself in a tone that made Covenant feel oddly uncomfortable. His movements seemed awkward, as if he were trying to conceal arcane gestures while he handled the food. He avoided Covenant’s gaze, but whenever Covenant looked away, he could feel Triock’s eyes flick furtively over him and flinch away. He was startled when Triock said abruptly, “So you have given up hate.”

  “Given up—?” He had not thought of the matter in those terms before. “Maybe I have. It doesn’t seem like a very good answer. I mean, aside from the fact that there’s no room for it in—in the law of leprosy. Hate, humiliation, revenge—I make a mistake every time I let them touch me. I risk my life. And love, too, if you want to know the truth. But aside from that. It doesn’t seem that I could beat Foul that way. I’m just a man. I can’t hate—forever—as he can. And”—he forced himself to articulate a new perception—“my hate isn’t pure. It’s corrupt because part of me always hates me instead of him. Always.”

  Triock placed a stoneware pot of stew in the fire to cook and said in a tone of eerie conviction, “It is the only answer. Look about you. Health, love, duty—none suffice against this winter. Only those who hate are immortal.”

  “Immortal?”

  “Certainly. Death claims all else in the end. How else do the Despiser and—and his”—he said the name as if it dismayed him—“Ravers endure? They hate.” In his hoarse, barking tone, the word took on a wide range of passion and violence, as if indeed it were the one word of truth and transcendence.

  The savor of the stew began to reach Covenant. He found that he was hungry—and that his inner quiescence covered even Triock’s queer asseverations. He stretched out his legs, reclined on one elbow. “Hate,” he sighed softly, reducing the word to manageable dimensions. “Is that it, Triock? I think—I think I’ve spent this whole thing—dream, delusion, fact, whatever you want to call it—I’ve spent it all looking for a good answer to death. Resistance, rape—ridicule—love—hate? Is that it? Is that your answer?”

  “Do not mistake me,” Triock replied. “I do not hate death.”

  Covenant gazed into the dance of the fire for a moment and let the aroma of the stew remind him of deep, sure, empty peace. Then he said as if he were completing a litany, “What do you hate?”

  “I hate life.”

  Brusquely Triock spooned stew into bowls. When he handed a bowl around the fire to Covenant, his hand shook. But as soon as he had returned to his hooded covert beyond the flames, he snapped angrily, “Do you think I am unjustified? You, Unbeliever?”

  No. No. Covenant could not lift up his head against the accusation in Triock’s voice. Hate me as much as you need to, he breathed into the crackling of the fire and the steaming stew. I don’t want anyone else to sacrifice himself for me. Without looking up, he began to eat.

  The taste of the stew was not unpleasant, but it had a disconcerting under-flavor which made it difficult to swallow. Yet once a mouthful had passed his throat, he found it warm and reassuring. Slowly drowsiness spread outward from it. After a few moments, he was vaguely surprised to see that he had emptied the bowl.

  He put it aside and lay down on his back. Now the fire seemed to grow higher and hotter, so that he only caught glimpses of Triock watching him keenly through the weaving spring and crackle of the flames. He was beginning to rest when he heard Triock say through the fiery veil, “Unbeliever, why do you not resume your journey to Foul’s Creche? Surely you do not believe that the Despiser will permit your flight—after he has striven so to bring about this confrontation of which you speak.”

  “He won’t want me to get away,” Covenant replied emptily, surely. “But I think he’s too busy doing other things to stop me. And if I can slip through his fingers just once, he’ll let me go—at least for a while. I’ve—I’ve already done so much for him. The only thing he still wants from me is the ring. If I don’t threaten him with it, he’ll let me go while he fights the Lords. And then he’ll be too late. I’ll be gone as far as the Ranyhyn can take me.”

  “But what of this—this Creator”—Triock spat the word—“who they say also chose you. Has he no hold upon you?”

  Sleepiness only strengthened Covenant’s confidence. “I don’t owe him anything. He chose me for this—I didn’t choose it or him. If he doesn’t like what I do, let him find someone else.”

  “But what of the people who have died and suffered for you?” Triock’s anger returned, and he ripped the words as if they were illustrations of meaning which he tore from the walls of a secret Hall of Gifts deep within him. “How will you supply the significance they have earned from you? They have lost themselves in bootless death if you flee.”

  I know, Covenant sighed to the sharp flames and the wind. We’re all futile, alive or dead. He made an effort to speak clearly through his coming sleep. “What kind of significance will it give them if I commit suicide? They won’t thank me for throwing away—something that cost them so much. While I’m alive”—he lost the thought, then recovered it—“while I’m alive, the Land is still alive.”

  “Because it is your dream!”

  Yes. For that reason among others.

  Covenant experienced a moment of stillness before the passion of Triock’s response penetrated him. Then he hauled himself up and peered wearily through the fire at the Stonedownor. Because he could think of nothing else to say, he murmured, “Why don’t you get some rest? You probably exhausted yourself waiting for me.”

  “I have given up sleep.”

  Covenant yawned. “Don’t be ridiculous. What do you think you are? A Bloodguard?”

  In answer, Triock laughed tautly, like a cord about to snap.

  The sound made Covenant feel that something was wrong, that he should not have been so irresistibly sleepy. He should have had the strength to meet Triock??
?s distress responsibly. But he could hardly keep his eyes open. Rubbing his stiff face, he said, “Why don’t you admit it? You’re afraid I’ll sneak off as soon as you stop watching me.”

  “I do not mean to lose you now, Thomas Covenant.”

  “I wouldn’t—do that to you.” Covenant blinked and found his cheek resting against the hard ground. He could not remember having reclined. Wake up, he said to himself without conviction. Sleep seemed to be falling on him out of the grayness of the sky. He mumbled, “I still don’t know how you found me.” But he was asleep before the sound of his voice reached his ears.

  He felt he had been unconscious for only a moment when he became aware on a half-subliminal level of darknesses thronging toward him out of the winter, as abysmal as death. Against them came faint alien gleams of music which he recognized and did not remember. They melodied themselves about him in blue-green intervals that he could neither hear nor see. They appeared weak, elusive, like voices calling to him across a great distance. But they were insistent; they nudged him, sang to him, plied him toward consciousness. Through his uncomprehending stupor, they danced a blind, voiceless warning of peril.

  To his own surprise, he heard himself muttering: He drugged me. By hell! that crazy man drugged me. The assertion made no sense. How had he arrived at such a conclusion? Triock was an honest man, frank and magnanimous in grief—a man who clove to mercy and peace despite their cost to himself.

  He drugged me.

  Where had that conviction come from? Covenant fumbled with numb fingers through his unconsciousness, while an unshakable sense of peril clutched his heart. Darkness and harm crowded toward him. Behind his sleep—behind the glaucous music—he seemed to see Triock’s campfire still burning.

  How did he light that fire?

  How did he find me?

  The urgent gleams were trying to tell him things he could not hear. Triock was a danger. Triock had drugged him. He must get up and flee—flee somewhere—flee into the Forest.