drinking eased some of his weariness. Then, as the night deepened, he found that the air which flowed up to them from the bowl had a lush, restful effect. When he took it far into his lungs, it seemed to unwind his cares and dreads, setting everything but itself behind him and lifting him into a state of calm suspense. He relaxed in the gentle breeze, settled himself more comfortably against the tree. Atiaran's shoulder touched his with warmth, as if she had forgiven him. The night deepened, and the stars gleamed expectantly, and the breeze sifted the cobwebs and dust from Covenant's heart-and waiting was not difficult.
The first flickering light came like a twist of resolution which brought the whole night into focus. Across the width of the bowl, he saw a flame like the burn of a candle-tiny in the distance, and yet vivid, swaying yellow and orange as clearly as if he held the candlestick in his hands. He felt strangely sure that the distance was meaningless; if the flame were before him on the grass, it would be no larger than his palm.
As the Wraith appeared, Atiaran's breath hissed intently between her teeth, and Covenant sat up straighter to concentrate more keenly.
With a lucid, cycling movement, the flame moved down into the bowl. It was not halfway to the bottom when a second fire arrived on the northern rim. Then two more Wraiths entered from the south-and then, too suddenly to be counted, a host of flames began tracing their private ways into the bowl from all directions. Some passed within ten feet of Atiaran and Covenant on either side, but they seemed unconscious of the observers; they followed their slow cycles as if each were alone in the Hills, independent of every gleam but its own. Yet their lights poured together, casting a dome of gold through which the stars could barely be seen; and at moments particular Wraiths seemed to bow and revolve around each other, as if sharing a welcome on their way toward the centre.
Covenant watched the great movement that brought thousands of the flames, bobbing at shoulder height, into the bowl, and he hardly dared to breathe. In the excess of his wonder, he felt like an unpermitted spectator beholding some occult enactment which was not meant for human eyes. He clutched his chest as if his chance to see the Celebration to its end rode on the utter silence of his respiration, as if he feared that any sound might violate the fiery conclave, scare the Wraiths away.
Then a change came over the gathered flames. Up into the sky rose a high, scintillating, wordless song, an arching melody. From the centre of the bowl, the private rotations of the Wraiths resolved themselves into a radiating, circling Dance. Each Wraith seemed finally to have found its place in a large, wheel-like pattern which filled half the bowl, and the wheel began to turn on its centre. But there were no lights in the centre; the wheel turned on a hub of stark blackness which refused the glow of the Wraiths.
As the song spread through the night, the great circle revolved-each flame dancing a secret, independent dance, various in moves and sways-each flame keeping its place in the whole pattern as it turned. And in the space between the inner hub and the outer rim, more circles rolled, so that the whole wheel was filled with many wheels, all turning. And no Wraith kept one position long. The flames flowed continuously through their moving pattern, so that as the wheel turned, the individual Wraiths danced from place to place, now swinging along the outer rim, now gyring through the middle circles, now circling the hub. Every Wraith moved and changed places constantly, but the pattern was never broken-no hiatus of misstep gapped the wheel, even for an instant-and every flame seemed both perfectly alone, wandering mysteriously after some personal destiny through the Dance, and perfectly a part of the whole. While they danced, their light grew stronger, until the stars were paled out of the sky, and the night was withdrawn, like a distant spectator of the Celebration.
And the beauty and wonder of the Dance made of Covenant's suspense a yearning ache.
Then a new change entered the festival. Covenant did not realize it until Atiaran touched his arm; her signal sent a thrill of awareness through him, and he saw that the wheel of the Wraiths was slowly bending. The rest of the wheel retained its shape, and the black core did not move. Gradually, the turning circle became lopsided as the outer Wraiths moved closer to the onlookers. Soon the growing bulge pointed unmistakably at Covenant.
In response, he seemed to feel their song more intensely-a keening, ecstatic lament, a threnody as thoroughly passionate as a dirge and as dispassionate as a sublime, impersonal affirmation. Their nearing flames filled him with awe and fascination, so that he shrank within himself but could not move. Cycle after cycle, the Wraiths reached out toward him, and he clasped his hands over his knees and held himself still, taut-hearted and utterless before the fiery Dancers.
In moments, the tip of this long extension from the circle stood above him, and he could see each flame bowing to him as it danced by. Then the rim of the extension dipped, and the pace of the Dance slowed, as though to give each Wraith a chance to linger in his company. Soon the fires were passing within reach of his hand. Then the long arm of the Dance flared, as if a decision had run through the Dancers. The nearest Wraith moved forward to settle on his wedding band.
He flinched, expecting the fire to burn him, but there was no pain. The flame attached itself to the ring as to a wick, and he felt faintly the harmonies of the Celebration song through his finger. As the Wraith held to his ring, it danced and jumped as if it were feeding excitedly there. And slowly its colour turned from flaming yellow-orange to silver-white.
When the transformation was complete, that Wraith flashed away, and the next took its place. A succession of fires followed, each dancing on his ring until it became argent; and as his anxiety relaxed, the succession grew faster. In a short time, the line of glistening white Wraiths had almost reached back to the rest of the Dance. Each new flame presented itself swiftly, as if eager for some apotheosis, some culmination of its being, in the white gold of Covenant's ring.
Before long, his emotion became too strong to let him remain seated. He surged to his feet, holding out his ring so that the Wraiths could light on it without lowering themselves.
Atiaran stood beside him. He had eyes only for the transformation which his ring somehow made possible, but she looked away across the Dance.
What she saw made her dig her fingers like claws of despair into his arm. “No! By the Seven! This must not be!”
Her cry snatched at his attention; his gaze jumped across the bowl.
“There! That is the meaning of the ill your feet have felt!”
What he saw staggered him like a blow to the heart.
Coming over the northeast rim of the bowl into the golden light was an intruding wedge of blackness, as pitch-dark and un-illuminable as the spawning ground of night. The wedge cut its narrow way down toward the Dance, and through the song of the flames, it carried a sound like a host of bloody feet rushing over clean grass. Deliberately, agonizingly, it reached inward without breaking its formation. In moments, the tip of the darkness sliced into the Dance and began plunging toward its centre.
In horror, Covenant saw that the Dance did not halt or pause. At the wedge's first touch, the song of the Wraiths dropped from the air as if it had been ripped away by sacrilege, leaving no sound behind it but a noise like running murder. But the Dance did not stop. The flames went on revolving as if they were unconscious of what was happening to them, helpless. They followed their cycles into the wedge's path and vanished as if they had fallen into an abyss. No Wraith emerged from that darkness.
Swallowing every light that touched it, the black wedge gouged its way into the Celebration.
“They will all die!” Atiaran groaned. “They cannot stop-cannot escape. They must dance until the Dance is done. All dead-every Wraith, every bright light of the Land! This must not be. Help them! Covenant, help them!”
But Covenant did not know how to help. He was paralyzed. The sight of the black wedge made him feel as nauseated as if he were observing across a gulf of numbness his fingers being eaten by a madman nauseated and enraged and impotent, as if he had waited too long to defend himself, and now had no hands with which to fight back. The knife of Triock slipped from his numb fingers and disappeared in darkness.
How-?
For an instant, Atiaran dragged furiously at him. “Covenant! Help them!” she shrieked into his face. Then she turned and raced down into the valley to meet the wedge.
The Wraiths-!
Her movement broke the freeze of his horror. Snatching up the staff of Baradakas, he ducked under the flames and sped after her, holding himself bent over to stay below the path of the Wraiths. A madness seemed to hasten his feet; he caught Atiaran before she was halfway to the hub. Thrusting her behind him, he dashed on toward the penetrating wedge, spurred by a blind conviction that he had to reach the centre before the blackness did.
