The Wounded Land

Faces intruded on him: Linden, Sunder, Brinn. Brinn's visage was as absolute as Banner's. Linden's features were strained, not by severity or choice, but by fear. He closed his mind to them, so that his own passion would not blind him. Instead, he thought about the hidden door Vain had discovered.

He could sense the answer in him, mumbling toward clarity. But it was still blocked by his preconceptions. Yet its very nearness drew beads of trepidation-sweat from his face. He was not prepared for the mendacity it represented.

Mendacity. He reached out for that idea, tried to take hold of its implications. But the hands of his mind were half-hands, inadequate.

The knock at his door jerked him erect. A pang stung his neck; droplets of sweat spattered the floor.

Before he could leave his chair, the door sprang open. Memla burst into the room.

A tangle of grey-streaked hair framed her pale visage. She clutched her rukh as if she meant to strike him with it. But it held no flame. Her eyes were full of broken honesty.

“False!” she gasped. “They have been false to me!”

He lurched to confront her across the table.

She gaped momentarily for words, unable to compress the enormity of her indignation into mere speech. Then she broke out, “They are here! Santonin-your companions! All here!”

Covenant gripped the table to keep himself from falling.

“Two Stonedownors and a stranger. In the hold.” Passion obstructed her breathing. 'Santonin I saw, where he did not expect to be seen. The na-Mhoram uttered direct falsehood to me!

“I challenged Santonin. He revealed the truth-why I and others were sent to meet you. Smirking! Not to escort you, no. To ensure that you did not catch him. He gained Revelstone on the second day of the fertile sun. One day before us!”

One day? Something in Covenant began to howl. One day?

“Had I not halted you-had you walked through the night-you might have come upon him before dawn. He passed near me.”

With an inchoate snarl, Covenant swung his arm, swept the tray from the table. Stoneware broke; metheglin splashed the floor. But the act steadied him. “Memla.” He had been unjust to her. He regained control of his limbs, his purpose; but he could not control his voice. “Take me to Gibbon.”

She stared at him. His demand took her aback. “You must flee. You are in peril.”

“Now.” He needed to move, begin, so that the trembling in his chest would not spread to his legs. “Take me to him now.”

She hesitated, then gave a fierce nod. “Yes. It is right,” Turning on her heel, she strode out of the room.

He surged after her in anguish and fury. Down toward the roots of Revelstone she guided him, along ways which he remembered. It was a long descent, but it seemed to pass swiftly. When she entered a familiar hall lit from its end by torches, he recognized the place where the Lords of the Council had had their private quarters.

The wide, round court beyond the hall both was and was not as he remembered it. The floor was burnished granite, as smooth as if it had been polished by ages of use and care. The ceiling rose far above the floor; and the walls were marked at intervals with coigns by which other levels of the Keep communicated with the dwellings spaced around the base of the cavity. These things accorded with his memory. But the light was altogether different. The Lords had not needed torches; the floor itself had shone with Earthpower. According to the old tales, the stone had been set aglow by Kevin Landwaster and the Staff of Law. But that illumination-so expressive of the warmth and fidelity of the Council-was gone now. The torches which replaced it seemed garish and unreliable by comparison.

But Covenant had neither time nor attention to spare for lost wonder. A score of the Clave stood around the centre of the floor. All held their rukhs ready; and the na-Mhoram's crozier dominated them. They had turned to the sound of Covenant's entrance. Their hoods concealed their faces.

Within their circle lay a stone slab like a catafalque. Heavy iron fetters chained a man to it.

One of the Haruchai.

When Covenant stalked ahead of Memla to approach the circle, he recognized Brinn.

“Halfhand,” the na-Mhoram said. For the first time, Covenant heard excitement in Gibbon's tone. “The soothtell is prepared. All your questions will be answered now.”

Nineteen: Soothtell

THE vibration of augury in the na-Mhoram's voice stopped Covenant. The high dome of the space was dark, untouched by the light of the torches; the Riders stood on the dead floor as if it were the bottom of an abyss. Behind the concealment of their hoods, they might have been ur-viles; only the pale flesh of their hands revealed that they were human as they poised their rukhs for fire. Santonin was probably among them. Stonemight Woodhelven's fragment of the Illearth Stone was probably hidden somewhere in this circle. Gibbon's tone told Covenant that the Clave had not gathered here to do him any benefit.

He came to a halt. Echoes of his rage repeated within him like another voice iterating ridicule. Instinctively, he clenched his half-fist around his wedding band. But he did not retreat. In a raw snarl, he demanded, “What the bloody hell have you done with my friends?”

“The soothtell will answer.” Gibbon was eager, hungry. “Do you choose to risk the truth?”

Brinn gazed at Covenant. His mien was impassive; but sweat sheened his forehead. Abruptly, he tensed against his fetters, straining with stubborn futility to break the chains.

Memla had not left the mouth of the hall. “Ware, Halfhand!” she warned in a whisper. “There is malice here.”

He felt the force of her warning. Brinn also was striving to warn him. For an instant, he hesitated. But the Haruchai had recognized him. Somehow, Brinn's people had preserved among them the tale of the Council and of the old wars against Corruption-the true tale, not a distorted version. And Covenant had met Bannor among his Dead in Andelain.

Gripping his self-control, he stepped into the circle, went to the catafalque. He rested a hand momentarily on Brinn's arm. Then he faced the na-Mhoram.

“Let him go.”

The na-Mhoram did not reply directly. Instead, he turned toward Memla. “Memla na-Mhoram-in,” he said, “you have no part in this soothtell. I desire you to depart.”

“No.” Her tone brandished outrage. “You have been false to him. He knows not what he chooses.”

“Nevertheless,” Gibbon began quietly, then lost his hebetude in a strident yell, “you will depart!”

For a moment, she refused. The air of the court was humid with conflicting intentions. Gibbon raised his crozier as if to strike at her. Finally, the combined repudiation of the circle was too strong for her. In deep bitterness, she said, 'I gave promise to the Halfhand for the safety of his companions. It is greatly wrong that the na-Mhoram holds the word of a na-Mhoram-in in such slight trust.' Turning on her heel, she strode away down the hall.

Gibbon dismissed her as if she had ceased to exist. Facing Covenant once again, he said, “There is no power without blood.” He seemed unable to suppress the acuity of his excitement. “And the soothtell requires power. Therefore this Haruchai. We will shed him to answer your questions.”

“No!” Covenant snapped. “You've killed enough of them already.”

“We must have blood,” the na-Mhoram said.

“Then kill one of your bloody Riders!” Covenant was white with fury. “I don't give a good goddamn what you do! Just leave the Haruchai alone!” _,

“As you wish.” Gibbon sounded triumphant.

“Ur-Lord!” Brinn shouted.

Covenant misread Brinn's warning. He sprang backward, away from the catafalque-into the hands of the Riders behind him. They grappled with him, caught his arms. Faster than he could defend himself, two knives