you. You turn from us to save life in your own world. We will not be undone by such motives. And if darkness should fall upon us, still the beauty of the Land endures. If we are a dream-and you the dreamer-then the Land is imperishable, for you will not forget.
“Be not afraid, ur-lord Thomas Covenant. Go in Peace.”
He felt a pressure of protest from Lord Loerya and some of the other spectators, but he overruled them with a commanding gesture. One by one, the Lords withdrew the power of their staffs while Tohrm lowered the graveling fire. Covenant began to fade as if he were dissolving in the abyss beyond the arch of Time.
Then High Lord Mhoram recollected his promise to reveal the secret of the wild magic. He did not know whether or not Covenant could still hear him, but he whispered after the fading form, “You are the white gold.”
A moment later, he knew that the Unbeliever was gone. All sense of resistance and power had left the air, and the light of the graveling had declined to a more normal level. For the first time since the summoning began, Mhoram saw the shapes and faces of the people around him. But the sight did not last. Tears blinded him, and he leaned weakly on his staff as if only its stern wood could uphold him.
He was full of grief over the strange ease with which he had summoned the Unbeliever. Without the Staff of Law, he should not have been able to call Covenant alone; yet he had succeeded. He knew why. Covenant had been so vulnerable to the summons because he was dying.
Through his sorrow, he heard Trevor say, “High Lord-the
Mhoram blinked back his tears. Leaning heavily on his staff, he moved to the table. In its centre, Loric’s
A fleeting blue gleam flickered across its gem, then vanished.
“It has no life now,” he said dully.
Then he left the Close and went to the sacred enclosure to sing for Covenant and Callindrill and the Land.
Three: The Rescue
A cold wind blew through Covenant’s soul as he struggled up out of the rock. It chilled him as if the marrow of his bones had been laid bare to an exhalation of cruel ice-cruel and sardonic, tinged with that faint yet bottomless green travail which was the antithesis of green things growing. But slowly it left him, slid away into another dimension. He became more conscious of the stone. Its granite impenetrability thickened around him; he began to feel that he was suffocating.
He flailed his arms and legs, tried to reach toward the surface. But for a time he could not even be sure that his limbs were moving. Then a series of jolts began to hurt his joints. He sensed through his elbows and knees that he was thrashing against something hard.
He was pounding his arms and legs at the hillside. Behind the muffled thuds and slaps he made, he could hear running water. The sun shone objectively somewhere beyond him. He jerked up his head.
At first, he could not orient himself. A stream splashed vividly across his sight; he felt that he was peering at it from above, that the slope down which it ran was canted impossibly under him. But at last he realized that he was not looking downward. He lay horizontally across the slope. The hill rose above him on the right, dropped away on the left.
He turned his head to search for the girl and the snake.
His eyes refused to focus. Something pale gleamed in front of his face, prevented him from seeing down the hill.
A thin, childish voice near him said, “Mister? Are you okay, mister? You fell down,”
He was trying to see too far away. With an effort, he screwed his gaze closer, and at last found himself staring from a distance of a few inches at a bare shin. In the sunlight, it gleamed as pure and pale as if it had been anointed with chrism. But already it showed a slight swelling. And in the centre of the swelling were two small red marks like paired pinpricks.
“Mister?” the child said again. “Are you okay? The snake bit me. My leg hurts.”
The frigid winter he had left behind seemed to leap at him from the depths of his mind. He began to shiver. But he forced himself to disregard the cold, bent all his attention toward those two red fang marks. Without taking his eyes off them, he climbed into a sitting position. His bruises groaned at him, and his forehead throbbed sickly, but he ignored all the pain, discounted it as if it had nothing to do with him. His trembling hands drew the little girl toward him.
Snakebite, he thought numbly. How do you treat snakebite?
“All right,” he said, then stopped. His voice shook unreassuringly, and his throat felt too dry to be controlled. He did not seem to know any comforting words. He swallowed hoarsely and hugged the child’s thin bones to his chest. “All right. You’re going to be all right. I’m here. I’ll help you.”
He sounded grotesque to himself-ghoulish and useless. The cut in his lip and gum interfered with his articulation. But he ignored that, too. He could not afford the energy to worry about such things. A haze of fever parched his thoughts, and he needed all his strength to fight it, recollect the treatment for snakebite.
He stared at the fang marks until he remembered. Stop the circulation, he said to himself as if he were stupid. Cut. Get out the poison.
Jerking himself into movement, he fumbled for his penknife.
When he got it out, he dropped it on the ground beside him, and hunted through the debris which littered his brain for something which he could use as a tourniquet. His belt would not do, he had no way to fasten it tightly enough. The child’s dress had no belt. Her shoelaces did not look long enough.
“My leg hurts,” she said plaintively. “I want my mommy.”
“Where is she?” muttered Covenant.
“That way.” She pointed vaguely downstream. “A long way. Daddy spanked me and I snuck away.”
Covenant clutched the girl with one arm to keep her from moving, and thus hastened the spread of the venom. With his free hand, he tore at the lace of his left boot. But it was badly frayed and snapped in his hand. Hellfire! he groaned in chagrin. He was taking too long. Trembling, he started on the right bootlace.
After a moment, he succeeded in removing it intact.
“All right,” he said unclearly. “I’ve got-got to do something about that bite. First I have to tie off your leg-so the poison won’t spread. Then I have to cut your leg a little. That way the poison can get out, and it won’t hurt you so much.” He strove to sound calm. “Are you brave today?”
She replied solemnly, “Daddy spanked me and I didn’t cry. I ran away.” He heard no trace of her earlier terror.
“Good girl,” he mumbled. He could not delay any longer; the swelling over her skin had increased noticeably, and a faint, blackish hue had started to stain her pale flesh. He wrapped his bootlace around her wounded leg above the knee.
“Stand on your other leg, so this one can relax.”
When she obeyed, he pulled the lace tight until she let out a low gasp of pain. Then he tied it off. “Good girl,” he said again. “You’re very brave today.”
With uncertain hands, he picked up his penknife and opened it.
For a time, he quailed at the prospect of cutting her. He was shivering too badly; the sun’s warmth went nowhere near the chill in his bones. But the livid fang marks compelled him. Gently, he lifted the child and seated her on his lap. With his left hand, he raised her leg until its swelling was only ten or twelve inches from his face. His penknife he gripped inadequately with the two fingers and thumb of his right hand.
“If you don’t look, you might not even feel it,” he said, and hoped he was not lying.
She acted as if the mere presence of an adult banished all her fears. “I’m not afraid,” she replied proudly. “I’m brave today.” But when Covenant turned so that his right shoulder came between her face and the sight of her leg, she caught her hands in his shirt and pressed her face against him.
