Stephen Donaldson - The Power That Preserves

But he rejected the idea, rejected the self-pity behind it. “I’d rather survive,” he murmured dimly. “I don’t want to die like that.”

The voice smiled. “It is done. You will live.”

By force of habit, Covenant said, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You will see it. But there is first one other thing that you will see. You have not asked for this gift, but I give it to you whether or not you wish it. I did not ask your approval when I elected you for the Land, and do not ask now.”

Before Covenant could protest, he sensed that the voice had left him. Once again, he was alone in the darkness. Oblivion swaddled him so comfortably that he almost regretted his decision to live. But then something around him or in him began to change, modulate. Without sight or hearing or touch, he became aware of sunlight, low voices, a soft warm breeze. He found himself looking down as if from a high hill at Glimmermere.

The pure waters of the lake reflected the heavens in deep burnished azure, and the breeze smelled gently of spring. The hills around Glimmermere showed the scars of Lord Foul’s preternatural winter. But already grass had begun to sprout through the cold-seared ground, and a few tough spring flowers waved bravely in the air. The stretches of bare earth had lost their grey, frozen deadness. The healing of the Land had begun.

Hundreds of people were gathered around the lake. Almost immediately, Covenant made out High Lord Mhoram. He stood facing east across Glimmermere. He bore no staff. His hands were heavily bandaged. On his left were the Lords Trevor and Loerya, holding their daughters, and on his right was Lord Amatin. All of them seemed solemnly glad, but Mhoram’s serene gaze outshone them, testified more eloquently than they could to the Land’s victory.

Behind the Lords stood Warmark Quaan and Hearthrall Tohrm-Quaan with the Hafts of his Warward, and Tohrm with all the Hirebrands and Gravelingases of Lord’s Keep. Covenant saw that Trell Atiaran-mate was not among them. He understood intuitively; Trell had carried his personal dilemma to its conclusion, and was either dead or gone. Again, the Unbeliever found that he could not argue away his guilt.

All around the lake beyond the Lords were Lorewardens and warriors. And behind them were the survivors of Revelstone-farmers, Cattleherds, horse-tenders, cooks, artisans, Craftmasters-children and parents, young and old-all the people who had endured. They did not seem many, but Covenant knew that they were enough; they would be able to commence the work of restoration.

As he watched, they drew close to Glimmermere and fell silent. High Lord Mhoram waited until they were all attentive, ready. Then he lifted up his voice.

“People of the Land,” he said firmly, “we are gathered here in celebration of life. I have no long song to sing. I am weak yet, and none of us is strong. But we live. The Land has been preserved. The mad riot and rout of Lord Foul’s army shows us that he has fallen. The fierce echo of battle within the krill of Loric shows us that the white gold has done combat with the Illearth Stone, and has emerged triumphant. That is cause enough for celebration. Enough? My friends, it will suffice for us and for our children, while the present age of the Land endures.

”In token of this, I have brought the krill to Glimmermere.” Reaching painfully into his robe, he drew out the dagger. Its gem showed no light or life. “In it, we see that ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder, has returned to his world, where a great hero was fashioned for our deliverance.

“Well, that is as it must be, though my heart regrets his passing. Yet let none fear that he is lost to us. Did not the old legends say that Berek Halfhand would come again? And was not that promise kept in the person of the Unbeliever? Such promises are not made in vain.

“My friends-people of the Land-Thomas Covenant once inquired of me why we so devote ourselves to the Lore of High Lord Kevin Landwaster. And now, in this war, we have learned the hazard of that Lore. Like the krill, it is a power of two edges, as apt for carnage as for preservation. Its use endangers our Oath of Peace.

“I am Mhoram son of Variol, High Lord by the choice of the Council. I declare that from this day forth we will not devote ourselves to any Lore which precludes Peace. We will gain lore of our own-we will strive and quest and learn until we have found a lore in which the Oath of Peace and the preservation of the Land live together. Hear me, you people! We will serve Earthfriendship in a new way.”

As he finished, he lifted the krill and tossed it high into the air. It arced glinting through the sunlight, struck water in the centre of Glimmermere. When it splashed the potent water, it flared once, sent a burn of white glory into the depths of the lake. Then it was gone forever.

High Lord Mhoram watched while the ripples faded. Then he made an exultant summoning gesture, and all the people around Glimmermere began to sing in celebration:

Hail, Unbeliever! Keeper and Covenant,

Unoathed truth and wicked’s bane,

Ur-Lord Illender, Prover of Life:

Hail! Covenant!

Dour-handed wild magic wielder,

Ur-Earth white gold’s servant and Lord-

Yours is the power that preserves.

Sing out, people of the Land-

Raise obeisance!

Hold honour and glory high to the end of days:

Keep clean the truth that was won!

Hail, Unbeliever!

Covenant!

Hail!

They raised their staffs and swords and hands to him, and his vision blurred with tears. Tears smeared Glimmermere out of focus until it became only a smudge of light before his face. He did not want to lose it. He tried to clear his sight, hoping that the lake was not gone. But then he became conscious of his tears. Instead of wetting his cheeks, they ran from the corners of his eyes down to his ears and neck. He was lying on his back in comfort. When he refocused his sight, pulled it into adjustment like the resolution of a lens, he found that the smear of light before him was the face of a man.

The man peered at him for a long moment, then withdrew into a superficial haze of fluorescence. Slowly, Covenant realized that there were gleaming horizontal bars on either side of the bed. His left wrist was tied to one of them, so that he could not disturb the needle in his vein. The needle was connected by a clear tube to an IV bottle above his head. The air had a faint patina of germicide.

“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it,” the man said. “That poor devil is going to live.”

“That’s why I called you, doctor,” the woman said. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Do?” the doctor snapped.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” the woman replied defensively. “But he’s a leper! He’s been making people in this town miserable for months. Nobody knows what to do about him. Some of the other nurses want-they want overtime pay for taking care of him. And look at him. He’ s so messed up. I just think it would be a lot better for everyone-if he- “

“That’s enough.” The man was angry. “Nurse, if I hear another word like that out of you, you’re going to be looking for a new job. This man is ill. If you don’t want to help people who are ill, go find yourself some other line* of work.”

“I didn’t mean any harm,” the nurse huffed as she left the room.

After she was gone, Covenant lost sight of the doctor for a while; he seemed to fade into the insensitive haze of the lighting. Covenant tried to take stock of his situation. His right wrist was also tied, so that he lay in the bed as if he had been crucified. But the restraints did not prevent him from testing the essential facts about himself. His feet were numb and cold. His fingers were in the same condition-numb, chill. His forehead hurt feverishly. His lip was taut and hot with swelling.