The Wounded Land

“Take hold of the foot.” Dry dread filled her eyes. “Pull it straight away from the break. Hard. Keep pulling until all the splinters slip back under the skin. Then turn it into line with the leg. Hold the foot so the bones don't shift. When I feel everything's right-” She panted feverishly; but her doctor's training controlled her. “-I'll nod. Let go of the foot. Slowly. Put a splint on it. Up past the knee. Splint the whole leg.”

Immediately, she squeezed her eyes shut, opened her mouth to accept Hollian's cloth.

A nausea of fear twisted in Covenant's bowels; but he ignored it. “Right,” he grated. “I'll do it.” Her courage appalled Mm. He moved to her foot.

Cail brushed him away.

Curses jumped through Covenant's teeth; but Cail responded without inflection, “This I will do for her.”

Covenant's vitals trembled. His hands had held power enough to maim the lurker and had suffered no harm. “I said I'll do it.”

“No.” Cail's denial was absolute. “You have not the strength of the Haruchai. And the blame for this injury is mine.”

“Don't you understand?” Covenant could not find sufficient force for his remonstration. “Everything I touch turns to blood. All I do is kill.” His words seemed to drop to the ground, vitiated by the distant self-pity of the lurker. “She's here because she tried to save my life. I need to help her.”

Unexpectedly, Cail looked up and met Covenant's wounded gaze. “Ur-Lord,” he said as if he had judged the Unbeliever to the marrow of his bones, “you have not the strength.”

You don't understand! Covenant tried to shout. But no sound came past the knot of self-loathing in his throat. Cail was right; with his half-hand, he would not be able to grip Linden's foot properly; he could never help her, had not the strength. And yet his hands were unharmed. He could not resist when Pitchwife took hold of him, drawing him away from the group around Linden.

Without speaking, the malformed Giant led him to the campfire Honninscrave was building. Seadreamer sat there, resting his acid-burned foot. He gazed at Covenant with eloquent, voiceless eyes. Honninscrave gave Covenant a sharp glance, then picked up a stone cup from one of his bundles and handed it to Covenant. Covenant knew from the smell that the cup contained diamondraught, potent as oblivion. If he drank from that cup, he might not regain consciousness until the next day. Or the day after that.

Unconsciousness bore no burdens, felt no blame.

He did not drink. He stared into the flames without seeing them, without feeling the clench of grief on his features. He did nothing but listen to the sounds of the night: the lurker bubbling pain softly to itself; Pitchwife's faint stertorous breathing; Linden's gagged scream as Cail started to pull at her foot. Her bones made a noise like the breaking of sodden sticks as they shifted against each other.

Then the First said tightly, “It is done.”

The fire cast streaks of orange and yellow through Covenant's tears. He did not want ever to be able to see again, wished himself forever deaf and numb. But he turned to Pitchwife and lifted the stone cup toward the Giant. “Here. She needs this.”

Pitchwife carried the cup to Linden. Covenant followed like a dry leaf in his wake.

Before Covenant reached her, he was met by Brinn and Cail. They blocked his way; but they spoke deferentially. “Ur-Lord.” Brinn's alien inflection expressed the difficulty of apologizing. “It was necessary to deny you. No disservice was intended.”

Covenant fought the tightness of his throat. “I met Bannor in Andelain. He said, 'Redeem my people. Their plight is an abomination. And they will serve you well.'”

But no words were adequate to articulate what he meant. He fumbled past the Haruchai, went to kneel at Linden's side.

She was just emptying the cup which the First held for her. The skin of her face looked as bloodless as marble; a patina of pain clouded her gaze. But her respiration was growing steadier, and the clench of her muscles had begun to loosen. With numb fingers, he rubbed the tears from his eyes, trying to see her clearly, trying to believe that she would be all right.

The First looked at him. Quietly, she said, “Trust the diamondraught. She will be healed.”

He groped for his voice. “She needs bandages. A splint. That wound should be cleaned.”

“It will be done.” The quaver of stress in Hollian's tone told him that she needed to help. “Sunder and I-”

He nodded mutely, remaining at Linden's side while the Stonedownors went to heat water and prepare bandages and splints. She seemed untouchable in her weakness. He knelt with his arms braced on the ground and watched the diamondraught carry her to sleep.

He also watched the care with which Hollian, Sunder, and Stell washed and bandaged Linden's ankle, then splinted her leg securely. But at the same time, a curious bifurcation came over him-a split like the widening gulf between his uselessness and his power. He was sure now-though he feared to admit it to himself-that he had healed himself with wild magic when he had been summoned to Kevin's Watch with the knife-wound still pouring blood from his chest. He remembered his revulsion at Lord Foul's refrain, You are mine, remembered heat and white flame -

Then why could he not do the same for Linden, knit her bones just as he had sealed his own flesh? For the same reason that he could not draw water from the Earth or oppose the Sunbane. Because his senses were too numb for the work, unattuned to the spirit within the physical needs around him. Clearly, this was deliberate, a crucial part of the Despiser's intent. Clearly, Lord Foul sought at every turn to increase both Covenant's might and his helplessness, stretch him on the rack of self-contradiction and doubt. But why? What purpose did it serve?

He had no answer. He had invested too much hope in Linden, in her capacity for healing. And Lord Foul had chosen her on precisely the same grounds. It was too much. Covenant could not think. He felt weak and abject of soul. For a moment, he listened to the misery of the lurker. Then, numbly, he left Linden's side and returned to the campfire, seeking warmth for his chilled bones.

Sunder and Hollian joined him. They held each other as if they, too, felt the cold of his plight. After a few moments, Harn and Hergrom brought food and water. Covenant and the Stonedownors ate like the survivors of a shipwreck.

Covenant's dullness grew in spite of the meal. His head felt as heavy as prostration; his heart lay under a great weight. He hardly noticed that the First of the Search had come to speak with Honninscrave. He stood, leaning toward the flames like a man contemplating his own dissolution. When Honninscrave addressed him, veils of fatigue obscured the Giant's words.

“The First has spoken,” Honninscrave said. “We must depart. The lurker yet lives. And the skest do not retreat. We must depart while they are thus thinly scattered and may be combated. Should the lurker renew its assault now, all your power — and all the Chosen's pain — will have gained us naught.”

Depart, Covenant mumbled. Now. The importance of the words was hidden. His brain felt like a tombstone.

“You speak truly,” Brinn replied for Covenant. “It would be a gladness to travel with Giants, as the old tellers say Haruchai and Giants travelled together in the ancient days. But perhaps our paths do not lie with each other. Where do you go?”

The First and Honninscrave looked at Seadreamer. Seadreamer closed his eyes as if to ignore them; but with one long arm he pointed toward the west.

Brinn spoke as if he were immune to disappointment. “Then we must part. Our way is eastward, and it is urgent.”

Part? A pang penetrated Covenant's stupor. He wanted the company of the Giants. He had a world of things to tell them. And they were important to him in another way as well, a way he could not seem to articulate. He shook his head. “No.”

Honninscrave cocked an eyebrow. The First frowned at Covenant.

“We just met,” Covenant murmured. But that was not what he had to say. He groped for clarity. “Why west?” Those words disentangled some of his illucidity. “Why are you here?”

“Giantfriend,” the First responded with a hint of iron, “that tale is long, and the time is perilous. This lurker is a jeopardy too vast to be disdained.”