The Wounded Land

floor. In a wash of nacreous illumination, he stepped past the threshold.

Covenant followed like a man in a trance.

They entered a large chamber crammed with tables, walled to the ceiling with shelves. Hundreds of scrolls, caskets, pouches, periapts filled the shelves. The tables were piled high with staffs, swords, scores of talismans. The light came from three of the richest caskets, set high on the back wall, and from several objects on the tables. Dumb with astonishment, Covenant recognized the small chest which had once held the krill of Loric Vilesilencer. The chest was open and empty.

He gaped about him, unable to think, realize, understand.

A moment later, Akkasri and two people dressed like Riders raced into the chamber and leaped to a halt. They brandished flaming rukhs. “Touch nothing!” one of them barked.

Vain ignored them as if he had already forgotten they had the power to harm him. He moved to one of the far tables. There he found what he sought: two wide bands of dull grey iron.

Covenant identified them more by instinct than any distinctive feature.

The heels of the Staff of Law.

The Staff of Law, greatest tool of the Council of Lords, formed by Berek Halfhand from a branch of the One Tree. It was destroyed by wild magic when Lord Foul had forced dead Elena to wield it against the Land. Bannor had borne the heels back to Revelstone after the Despiser's defeat.

Before anyone could react, Vain donned the bands.

One he slipped over his right hand. It should have been too small; but it went past his knuckles without effort, and fitted snugly to his wrist.

The other he pulled onto his left foot. The iron seemed elastic. He drew it over his arch and heel easily, settled it tight about his ankle.

A Rider gasped. Akkasri and another woman faced Covenant. “Halfhand,” Akkasri's companion snapped, “this is upon your head. The Aumbrie of the Clave is forbidden to all. We will not tolerate such violation.”

Her tone brought Covenant back to himself. Dangers bristled in the air. Thinking rapidly, he said, “All the lore of the Lords-everything that used to belong to the Council. It's all here. It's all intact.”

“Much is intact,” Akkasri said rigidly. “The Council was decadent. Some was lost.”

Covenant hardly heard her. “The First and Second Wards.” He gestured toward the shining caskets. “The Third Ward? Did they find the Third Ward?” Foreseeing the Ritual of Desecration, Kevin Landwaster had hidden all his knowledge in Seven Wards to preserve it for future Councils; but during High Lord Mhoram's time, only the first two and the last had been found.

“Evidently,” a Rider retorted. “Little good it did them.”

“Then why”- Covenant put all his appalled amazement into his voice — “don't you use it?”

“It is lore for that which no longer exists.” The reply had the force of an indictment. “It has no value under the Sunbane.”

Oh, hell. Covenant could find no other words for his dismay. Hell and blood.

“Come!” The Rider's command cut like a lash. But it was not directed at Covenant. She and her companions had turned toward Vain. Then1 rukhs burned redly, summoning power.

Vain obeyed, moving as if he had remembered the source of his injury. Akkasri grabbed his arm, tried to pull the band from his wrist; but the metal was Iron and inflexible.

Gesturing with their rukhs, she and the Riders escorted Vain from the Aumbrie as if Covenant were not present.

He followed them. To his surprise, they herded Vain away from the hidden doorway.

They went some distance down the rough corridor. Then the passage turned sharply, and debouched into a huge hall lit by many torches. The air was grey with smoke.

With a stab of shock, Covenant realized that the hall was a dungeon.

Scores of bolted iron doors seriated both walls. In each, heavy bars guarded a small window. Half a thousand people could have been imprisoned here, and no one who lacked Vain's instincts or knowledge could ever have found them.

As Covenant stared about him, the implications of the Riders' anger burned into clarity in his mind. Gibbon had not intended him to know of this place.

How many other secrets were there in Revelstone?

One of the Riders hurried to a door and shot back the bolts. Within lay a cell barely wide enough to contain a straw pallet.

With their rukhs, Akkasri and the other Rider forced Vain toward the door.

He turned under the architrave. His captors flourished threats of fire; but he made no move against them. He aimed one look at Covenant. His black face wore an expression of appeal.

Covenant glared back, uncomprehending. Vain?

A gift beyond price, Foamfollower had said. No purpose but his own.

Then it was too late. The door clanged shut on Vain. The Rider thrust home the bolts.

Uselessly Covenant protested, What do you want from me?

The next instant, a brown arm reached between the window bars of a nearby cell. Fingers clawed the air, desperate for freedom.

The gesture galvanized Covenant. It was something he understood. He dashed toward that door.

A Rider shouted at him, forbidding him. He paid no heed.

As he gamed the door, the arm withdrew. A flat face pressed against the bars. Impassive eyes gazed out at him.

He almost lost his balance in horror. The prisoner was one of the Haruchai — one of Banner's people, who made their home high in the fastnesses of the Westron Mountains. He could not mistake the stern characteristic mien of the race that had formed the Bloodguard, could not mistake the resemblance to Banner, who had so often saved his life.

In Andelain, Banner's shade had said, Redeem my people. Their plight is an abomination.

Suppressing the tonal hit of his native tongue, the Haruchai said, “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder, I salute you. You are remembered among the Haruchai.” The implacable rigour of his personality seemed incapable of supplication. “I am Brinn. Will you set us free?”

Then hot iron struck the back of Covenant's neck, and he stumbled like a cripple into darkness.

His unconsciousness was agony, and he could do nothing to assuage it. For a time as painful as frenzy, he lay deaf and blind. But gradually the darkness turned to rain. Torrents, muffled by granite, poured down walls, cascaded off eaves and parapets, rattled against oriels. The sound carried him back to himself. He became aware of the texture of blankets against his skin, aware of the deadness in his fingers and feet, the numbness of loss.

Remembering leprosy, he remembered everything, with an acuteness that made him press his face to the bed, knot his hands in the blanket under him. Vain. The Haruchai. The attack of the Riders.

That hidden door, which led to the Aumbrie, and the dungeon.

It was the same kind of door which the Despiser had formerly used in Foul's Creche. What was such a door doing in Revelstone?

A shudder ran through him. He rolled over, wincing at the movement. The back of his neck was stiff and sore. But the bones were intact, and the damage to his muscles did not seem permanent.

When he opened his eyes, he found Gibbon sitting beside his bed. The na-Mhoram's beatific face was tightened to express concern; but his red eyes held only peril.

A quick glance showed Covenant that he lay in the bedroom of his suite. He struggled to sit up. Sharp pains lanced through his back and shoulders; but the change of position enabled him to cast a glance at his right hand.

His ring was still there. Whatever else the Clave intended, they apparently did not intend to steal the white