“No?” The Raver was mildly amused. “Forsooth. That lie, at least, I must rectify.” He advanced on her like a tide of slaughter. “You have committed murder. Are you not evil?”
He spread his arms as if he meant to embrace her. He had no face, no hands. A bright hallucination at the sleeve of his robe stretched toward her, caressed her cheek.
Terror bloomed from the touch like a nightshade of the soul. Gelid ill froze her face, spread ice across her senses like the concatenation and fulfilment of all her instinctive revulsion. It flamed through her and became truth. The truth of Despite. Wrong suppurated over her features, festering her severity and beauty, corrupting who she was. The Sunbane shone in her flesh: desert, pestilence, the screaming of trees. She would have howled, but she had no voice.
She fled. There was no other defence. Within herself, she ran away. She closed her eyes, her ears, her mouth, closed the nerves of her skin, sealed every entrance to her mind.
Sixteen: The Weird of the Waynhim
I won't!
Covenant fought to sit up, struggled against blankets that clogged his movements, hands that restrained him.
I'll never give it up!
Blindly, he wrestled for freedom. But a massive weakness fettered him where he lay. His right arm was pinned by a preterite memory of pain.
I don't care what you do to me!
And the grass under him was fragrant and soporific. The hands could not be refused. An uncertain blur of vision eased the darkness. The face bending over him was gentle and human.
“Rest, ring-wielder,” the man said kindly. “No harm will come upon you in this sanctuary. There will be time enough for urgency when you are somewhat better healed.”
The voice blunted his desperation. The analystic scent of the grass reassured and comforted him. His need to go after Linden mumbled past his lips, but he could no longer hear it.
The next time he awakened, he arrived at consciousness slowly, and all his senses came with him. When he opened his eyes, he was able to see. After blinking for a moment at the smooth dome of stone above him, he understood that he was underground. Though he lay on deep fresh grass, he could not mistake the fact that this spacious chamber had been carved out of the earth. The light came from braziers in the corners of the room.
The face he had seen earlier returned. The man smiled at him, helped him into a sitting position. “Have care, ring-wielder. You have been mortally ill. This weakness will be slow to depart.” The man placed a bowl of dark fluid in Covenant's hands and gently pressed him to drink. The liquid had a musty, alien flavour; but it steadied him as it went down into his emptiness.
He began to look around more closely. His bed was in the centre of the chamber, raised above the floor like a catafalque of grass. The native stone of the walls and dome had been meticulously smoothed and shaped. The ceiling was not high, but he would be able to stand erect. Low entryways marked opposite walls of the room. The braziers were made of unadorned grey stone and supported by iron tripods. The thick, black fluid in them burned without smoke.
When he turned his head far enough, he found Vain near him.
The Demondim-spawn stood with his arms hanging slightly bent. His lips wore a fault, ambiguous smile, and his eyes, black without pupil or iris, looked like the orbs of a blind man.
A quiver of revulsion shook Covenant. “Get-” His voice scraped his throat like a rusty knife. “Get him out of here.”
The man supported him with an arm around his back. “Perhaps it could be done,” he said, smiling wryly. “But great force would be required. Do you have cause to fear him?”
“He-” Covenant winced at chancrous memories: Sunbane victims dancing; Vain's grin. He had difficulty forcing words past the blade in his throat. “Refused to help me.” The thought of his own need made him tremble. “Get rid of him.”
“Ah, ring-wielder,” the man said with a frown, “such questions are not so blithely answered. There is much that I must tell you-and much I wish to be told.”
He faced Covenant; and Covenant observed him clearly for the first time. He had the dark hah-and stocky frame of a Stonedownor, though he wore nothing but a wide piece of leather belted around his waist. The softness of his brown eyes suggested sympathy; but his cheeks had been deeply cut by old grief, and the twitching of his mouth gave the impression that he was too well acquainted with fear and incomprehension. His skin had the distinctive pallor of a man who had once been richly tanned. Covenant felt an immediate surge of empathy for him.
“I am Hamako,” the man said. “My former name was one which the Waynhim could not utter, and I have foresworn it. The Waynhim name you ring-wielder in their tongue-and as ring-wielder you are well known to them. But I will gladly make use of any other name you desire.”
Covenant swallowed, took another drink from the bowl. “Covenant,” he said hoarsely. “I'm Thomas Covenant.”
The man accepted this with a nod. “Covenant.” Then he returned to the question of Vain. “For two days,” he said, “while you have lain in fever, the Waynhim have striven with the riddle of this Demondim-spawn. They have found purpose in him, but not harm. This is an astonishment to them, for they perceive clearly the hands of the ur- viles which made him, and they have no trust for ur-viles. Yet he is an embodiment of lore which the Waynhim comprehend. Only one question disturbs them.” Hamako paused as if reluctant to remind Covenant of past horrors. “When you freed
The dark fluid salved Covenant's throat, but he still sounded harsh. “I already used the command. He killed six people.”
“Ah,” said Hamako. He turned from Covenant, and called down one of the entryways in a barking tongue. Almost immediately, a Waynhim entered the chamber. The creature sniffed inquiringly in Covenant's direction, then began a rapid conversation with Hamako. Their voices had a roynish sound that grated on Covenant's nerves-he had too many horrid memories of ur-viles- but he suppressed his discomfort, tried not to think balefully of Vain. Shortly, the Waynhim trotted away as if it carried important information. Hamako returned his attention to Covenant.
The man's gaze was full of questions as he said, “Then you came not upon this Demondim-spawn by chance. He did not seek you out without your knowledge.”
Covenant shook his head.
“He was given to you,” Hamako continued, “by those who know his purpose. You comprehend him.”
“No. I mean, yes, he was given to me. I was told how to command him. I was told to trust him.” He scowled at the idea of Vain's trustworthiness. “But nothing else.”
Hamako searched for the right way to phrase his question. “May I ask-who was the giver?”
Covenant felt reluctant to answer directly. He did not distrust Hamako; he simply did not want to discuss his experience with his Dead. So tie replied gruffly, “I was in Andelain.”
“Ah, Andelain,” Hamako breathed. “The Dead.” He nodded in comprehension, but it did not relieve his awkwardness.
Abruptly, Covenant's intuition leaped. “You know what his purpose is.” He had often heard that the lore of the Waynhim was wide and subtle. “But you're not going to tell me.”
Bamako's mouth twitched painfully. “Covenant,” he said, pleading to be understood, “the Dead were your friends, were they not? Their concern for you is ancient and far-seeing. It is sooth-the Waynhim ken much, and
