Stephen Donaldson - The Power That Preserves

“Then who is there to reproach us? We provide the meaning of our own lives. If we serve the Land purely to the furthest limit of our abilities, what more can we ask of ourselves?”

Trevor answered, “Victory, High Lord. If we fail, the Land itself reproaches us. It will be made waste. We are its last preservers.”

The force of this thrust smote Mhoram. He found that he still lacked the courage to retort nakedly, Better failure than desecration . Instead, he turned the thrust with a wry smile and said, “The last, Lord Trevor? No. The Haruchai yet live within their mountain fastness. In their way, they know the name of the Earthpower more surely than any Lord. Ramen and Ranyhyn yet live. Many people of the South and North Plains yet live. Many of the Unfettered yet live. Caerroil Wildwood, Forestal of Garroting Deep, has not passed away. And somewhere beyond the Sunbirth Sea is the homeland of the Giants-yes, and of the Elohim and Bhrathair , of whom the Giants sang. They will resist Lord Foul’s hold upon the Earth.”

“But the Land, High Lord! The Land will be lost! The despiser will wrack it from end to end.”

At once, Mhoram breathed intensely, “By the Seven! Not while one flicker of love or faith remains alive!”

His eyes burned into Trevor’s until the Lord’s protest receded. Then he turned to Loerya. But in her he could see the discomfortable fear for her daughters at work, and he refrained from touching her torn feelings. Instead, he looked toward Amatin and was relieved to see that much of her anger had fallen away. She regarded him with an expression of hope. She had found something in him that she needed. Softly, she said, “High Lord, you have discovered a way in which we may act against this doom.”

The High Lord tightened his hold upon himself. “There is a way.” Raising his head, he addressed all the people in the Close. “My friends, Satansfist Raver has burned Revelwood. Trothgard is now in his hands. Soon he will begin to march upon us. Scant days remain before the siege of Revelstone begins. We can no longer delay.” The gold in his eyes flared as he said, “We must attempt to summon the Unbeliever.”

At this, a stark silence filled the Close. Mhoram could feel waves of surprise and excitement and dread pouring down on him from the galleries. Warmark Quaan’s passionate objection struck across his shoulders. But he waited in the silence until Lord Loerya found her voice to say, “That is impossible. The Staff of Law has been lost. We have no means for such a summoning.” The soft timbre of her voice barely covered its hard core.

Still Mhoram waited, looking toward the other Lords for answers to Loerya’s claim. After a long moment, Trevor said hesitantly, “But the Law of Death has been broken.”

“And if the Staff has been destroyed,” Amatin added quickly, “then the Earthpower which it held and focused has been released upon the Land. Perhaps it is accessible to us.”

“And we must make the attempt,” said Mhoram. “For good or ill, the Unbeliever is inextricably linked to the Land’s doom. If he is not here, he cannot defend the Land.”

“Or destroy it!” Quaan rasped.

Before Mhoram could respond, Hearthrall Borillar was on his feet. He said in a rush, “The Unbeliever will save the Land.”

Quaan growled, “This is odd confidence, Hearthrall.”

“He will save,” Borillar said as if he were surprised at his own temerity. Seven years ago, when he had met Covenant, he had been the youngest Hirebrand ever to take the office of Hearthrall. He had been acutely aware of his inexperience, and he was still deferential-a fact which amused his friend and fellow Hearthrall, Tohrm. “When I met the Unbeliever, I was young and timid-afraid.” Tohrm grinned impishly at the implication that Borillar was no longer young and timid. “ur-lord Covenant spoke kindly to me.”

He sat down again, blushing in embarrassment. But no one except Tohrm smiled, and Tohrm’s smile was always irrepressible. It expressed only amused fondness, not mockery. The pitch of Borillar’s conviction seemed to reproach the doubts in the Close. When Lord Loerya spoke again, her tone had changed. With a searching look at the young Hearthrall, she said, “How shall we make this attempt?”

Mhoram gravely nodded his thanks to Borillar, then turned back to the Lords. “I will essay the summoning. If my strength fails, aid me.” The Lords nodded mutely. With a final look around the Close, he sat down, bowed his head, and opened his mind to the melding of the Lords.

He did so, knowing that he would have to hold back part of himself, prevent Trevor and Loerya and Amatin from seeing into his secret. He was taking a great risk. He needed the consolation, the sharing of strength and support, which a complete mind melding could give; yet any private weakness might expose the knowledge he withheld. And in the melding his fellow Lords could see that he did withhold something. Therefore it was an expensive rite. Each meld drained him because he could only protect his secret by giving fortitude rather than receiving it. But he believed in the meld. Of all the lore of the new Lords, only this belonged solely to them; the rest had come to them through the Wards of Kevin Landwaster. And when it was practiced purely, melding brought the health and heart of any Lord to the aid of all the others.

As long as the High Lord possessed any pulse of life or thew of strength, he could not refuse to share them.

At last, the contact was broken. For a moment, Mhoram felt that he was hardly strong enough to stand; the needs of the other Lords, and their concern for him, remained on his shoulders like an unnatural burden. But he understood himself well enough to know that in some ways he did not have the ability to surrender. Instead, he had an instinct for absolute exertions which frightened him whenever he thought of the Ritual of Desecration. After a momentary rest, he rose to his feet and took up his staff. Bearing it like a standard, he walked around the table to the stairs and started down toward the open floor around the graveling pit.

As Mhoram reached the floor, Tohrm came down out of the gallery to join him. The Gravelingas’s eyes were bright with humour, and he grinned as he said, “You will need far sight to behold the Unbeliever.” Then he winked as if this were a jest. “The gulf between worlds is dark, and darkness withers the heart. I will provide more light.”

The High Lord smiled his thanks, and the Hearthrall stepped briskly to one side of the graveling pit. He bent toward the fire-stones, and at once seemed to forget the other people in the Close. Without another look at his audience, he softly began to sing.

In a low rocky language known only to those who shared the rhadhamaerl lore, he hymned an invocation to the fire-stones, encouraging them, stoking them, calling to life their latent power. And the red-gold glow of the graveling reflected like a response from his face. After a moment, Mhoram could see the brightness growing. The reddish hue faded from the gold; the gold turned purer, whiter, hotter; and the new-earth aroma of the graveling rose up like incense in the Close.

In silence, the three Lords stood, and the rest of the people joined them in a mute expression of respect for the rhadhamaerl and the Earthpower. Before them, the radiance of the pit mounted until Tohrm himself was pale in the light.

With a slow, stately movement, High Lord Mhoram lifted his staff, held it in both hands level with his forehead.

The summoning song of the Unbeliever began to run in his mind as he focused his thoughts on the power of his staff. One by one, he eliminated the people in the Close, and then the Close itself, from his awareness. He poured himself into the straight, smooth wood of his staff until he was conscious of nothing but the song and the light-and the illimitable implications of the Earthpower beating like ichor in the immense mountain-stone around him. Then he gathered as many strands of the pulse as he could hold together in the hands of his staff, and rode them outward through the warp and weft of Revelstone’s existence. And as he rode, he sang to himself: