for him. Covenant took a moment to be sure the entrance had no hidden locks or bolts, then went in after Gibbon.
Beyond the door lay a suite of rooms: a central area containing stone chairs and a table; a bedroom to one side and a bathroom to the other; an outer balcony. On the table was a tray of food. Brands lit the suite, covering the air with a patina of smoke. Remembering the untrammelled fires of the Lords, Covenant began to marshal bitter questions for the na-Mhoram.
“You will have comfort here,” Gibbon said. “But if you are displeased, we will provide any quarters you require. Revelstone is larger than the Clave, and much unused.” Beckoning for the hooded figure beyond the doorway, he continued, “This is Akkasri na-Mhoram-cro. She will answer your wants. Speak to her of any lack or desire.” The hooded woman bowed without revealing her face or hands, and withdrew. “Halfhand, are you content?”
Content? Covenant wanted to snarl. Oh, sure! Where the goddamn bloody hell is Linden? But he repressed that impulse. He did not wish to betray how much his companions mattered to him. Instead, he said, “I'll be fine. As long as nobody tries to stick a knife into me-or lock my door-or poison my food.”
Gibbon's beatitude smothered every emotion. His eyes were as bland as their colour permitted. He regarded Covenant for a moment, then moved to the table. Slowly, he ate a bite from every dish on the tray-dried fruit, bread, stew-and washed them down with a swallow from the flask. Holding Covenant's gaze, he said, “Halfhand, this mistrust does not become you. I am moved to ask why you are here, when you expect such ill at our hands.”
That question Covenant was prepared to answer honestly. “Not counting what happened to my friends, I need information. I need to understand this Sunbane. So I need the Clave. The villagers I've met-” They had been too busy trying to kill him to answer questions. “They just survive. They don't understand. I want to know what causes the Sunbane. So I can fight it.”
Gibbon's red eyes glinted ambiguously. “Very well,” he replied in a tone that expressed no interest in what he heard or said. “As to fighting the Sunbane, I must ask you to wait until the morrow. The Clave rests at night. But the causes of the Sunbane are plain enough. It is the Master's wrath against the Land for the evil of past service to a-Jeroth.”
Covenant growled inwardly. That idea was either a lie or a cruel perversion. But he did not intend to argue metaphysics with Gibbon. “That isn't what I mean. I need something more practical. How is it done? How did it happen? How does it work?”
Gibbon's gaze did not waver. “Halfhand, if I possessed such knowledge, I would make use of it myself.”
Terrific. Covenant did not know whether to believe the na-Mhoram. A wave of emotional fatigue rolled over him. He began to see how hard it would be to glean the information he needed; and his courage quailed. He did not know the right questions. He simply nodded when Gibbon said, “You are weary. Eat, now. Sleep. Perhaps the morrow will bring new insight.”
But as Gibbon moved to the door, Covenant felt compelled to try once more. “Tell me. How come Glimmermere still has water?”
“We moderate the Sunbane,” the na-Mhoram answered with easy patience. “Therefore the Earth retains some vitality.” A blink of hesitation touched his eyes, vanished. “An old legend avers that a nameless periapt lies in the deeps of the lake, sustaining it against the Sunbane.”
Covenant nodded again. He knew of at least one thing, powerful or not, which lay at the bottom of Glimmermere.
Then Gibbon left the room, closing the door behind him, and Covenant was alone.
He remained still for a while, allowing his weakness to flow over him. Then he took a chair out onto the balcony, so that he could sit and think in the privacy of the night.
His balcony stood halfway up the south face of the Keep. A gibbous moon was rising, and he was able to descry the vast dark jumble of trees left by the fertile sun. Sitting with his feet braced against the rail of the balcony to appease his fear of heights, he ran his fingers through his tangled beard, and tried to come to grips with his dilemma.
He did not in fact anticipate a physical attempt upon his life. He had insisted on the necessity of freedom in order to remind the Clave that they would gain nothing by killing him; but the truth was that he accused the Clave of meditating murder primarily as a release for an entirely different dread.
He was afraid for Linden, poignantly afraid that his friends were in far more danger than he was. And this fear was aggravated by his helplessness. Where were they? Were Gibbon and Memla lying about Santonin? If so, how could he learn the truth? If not, what could he do? He felt crippled without Linden; he needed her perceptions. She would have been able to tell him whether or not Gibbon was honest.
Cursing the numbness of his leprosy, he asked the night why
But to the question the night turned a deaf ear. Finally he abandoned the interrogation, and set about preparing for sleep.
In the bathroom., he stripped off his clothes, scrubbed both them and himself thoroughly, then draped them over chairbacks to dry. He felt vulnerable in his nakedness; but he accepted that risk by eating the food he had been given, drinking to the bottom the flask of
He awoke to the sound of rain-torrents beating like the rush of a river against Revelstone's granite. The air of the bedroom felt moist; he had not closed off the balcony before going to bed. But for a time he did not move; he lay in the streaming susurration and let the sound carry him toward alertness.
When at last he rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes, he found Vain standing near the bed.
The Demondim-spawn bore himself as always-arms hanging slightly bent, stance relaxed, eyes focused on nothing.
“What the hell-?” Covenant jerked out of bed and hurried into the next room. Rain came slashing in from the balcony, drenching the floor. He braved the deluge, went outside to look for some indication of how Vain had reached him.
Through the downpour, he saw a huge tree bough leaning against the end of the balcony. The butt of the limb rested on another balcony thirty or forty feet below; apparently, Vain had climbed several hundred feet up the wall of Revelstone by scaling his bough to the lower abutments, then pulling it up behind him and using it to reach the next parapets, ascending by stages until he gained Covenant's room. How Vain had known the right room Covenant had no idea.
Scattering water, he rushed back into his suite and swung shut the balcony-door. Naked and dripping, he gaped at the Demondim-spawn, amazed by Vain's inexplicable capabilities. Then a grim grin twisted his mouth. “Good for you,” he rasped. “This will make them nervous.” Nervous people made mistakes.
Vain gazed vacuously past him like a deaf-mute. Covenant nodded sharply at his thoughts and started toward the bathroom to get a towel. But he was pulled to a halt by the sight of the livid raw patch running from the left side of Vain's head down his shoulder. He had been injured; his damaged skin oozed a black fluid as if he had been severely burned.
How-? Over the past days, Covenant had become so convinced of Vain's invulnerability that now he could not think. The Demondim-spawn could be hurt? Surely-But the next instant his astonishment disappeared in a flaring of comprehension. Vain had been attacked by the Clave-Riders testing the mysterious figure outside their gates. They had burned him. Perhaps he had not even deigned to defend himself.
But his mien betrayed no knowledge of pain. After a moment, Covenant went cursing into the bathroom and began to towel himself dry. Bastards! I'll bet he didn't lift a finger. Swiftly, he donned his clothes, though they were still somewhat damp. Striding to the door of his suite, he pushed it open.
Akkasri na-Mhoram-cro stood in the passage with a fresh tray of food at her feet. Covenant beckoned
