is a power of two edges, as apt for carnage as for preservation. Its use endangers our Oath of Peace.
“I am Mhoram son of Variol, High Lord by the choice of the Council. I declare that from this day forth we will not devote ourselves to any Lore which precludes Peace. We will gain lore of our own-we will strive and quest and learn until we have found a lore in which the Oath of Peace and the preservation of the Land live together. Hear me, you people! We will serve Earthfriendship in a new way.”
As he finished, he lifted the krill and tossed it high into the air. It arced glinting through the sunlight, struck water in the centre of Glimmermere. When it splashed the potent water, it flared once, sent a burn of white glory into the depths of the lake. Then it was gone forever.
High Lord Mhoram watched while the ripples faded. Then he made an exultant summoning gesture, and all the people around Glimmermere began to sing in celebration:
Hail, Unbeliever! Keeper and Covenant,
Unoathed truth and wicked’s bane,
Ur-Lord Illender, Prover of Life:
Hail! Covenant!
Dour-handed wild magic wielder,
Ur-Earth white gold’s servant and Lord-
Yours is the power that preserves.
Sing out, people of the Land-
Raise obeisance!
Hold honour and glory high to the end of days:
Keep clean the truth that was won!
Hail, Unbeliever!
Covenant!
Hail!
They raised their staffs and swords and hands to him, and his vision blurred with tears. Tears smeared Glimmermere out of focus until it became only a smudge of light before his face. He did not want to lose it. He tried to clear his sight, hoping that the lake was not gone. But then he became conscious of his tears. Instead of wetting his cheeks, they ran from the corners of his eyes down to his ears and neck. He was lying on his back in comfort. When he refocused his sight, pulled it into adjustment like the resolution of a lens, he found that the smear of light before him was the face of a man.
The man peered at him for a long moment, then withdrew into a superficial haze of fluorescence. Slowly, Covenant realized that there were gleaming horizontal bars on either side of the bed. His left wrist was tied to one of them, so that he could not disturb the needle in his vein. The needle was connected by a clear tube to an IV bottle above his head. The air had a faint patina of germicide.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it,” the man said. “That poor devil is going to live.”
“That’s why I called you, doctor,” the woman said. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Do?” the doctor snapped.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” the woman replied defensively. “But he’s a leper! He’s been making people in this town miserable for months. Nobody knows what to do about him. Some of the other nurses want-they want overtime pay for taking care of him. And look at him. He’ s so messed up. I just think it would be a lot better for everyone-if he- “
“That’s enough.” The man was angry. “Nurse, if I hear another word like that out of you, you’re going to be looking for a new job. This man is ill. If you don’t want to help people who are ill, go find yourself some other line* of work.”
“I didn’t mean any harm,” the nurse huffed as she left the room.
After she was gone, Covenant lost sight of the doctor for a while; he seemed to fade into the insensitive haze of the lighting. Covenant tried to take stock of his situation. His right wrist was also tied, so that he lay in the bed as if he had been crucified. But the restraints did not prevent him from testing the essential facts about himself. His feet were numb and cold. His fingers were in the same condition-numb, chill. His forehead hurt feverishly. His lip was taut and hot with swelling.
He had to agree with the nurse; he was in rotten shape.
Then he found the doctor near him again. The man seemed young and angry. Another man entered the room, an older doctor whom Covenant recognized as the one who had treated him during his previous stay in the hospital. Unlike the younger man, this doctor wore a suit rather than a white staff jacket. As he entered, he said, “I hope you’ve got good reason for calling me. I don’t give up church for just anyone-especially on Easter.”
“This is a hospital,” the younger man growled, “not a bloody revival. Of course I’ve got good reason.”
“What’s eating you? Is he dead?”
“No. Just the opposite-he’s going to live. One minute he’s in allergic shock, and dying from it because his body’s too weak and infected and poisoned to fight back-and the next-Pulse firm, respiration regular, pupillary reactions normal, skin tone improving. I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a goddamn miracle, that’s what it is.”
“Come, now,” the older man murmured. “I don’t believe in miracles-neither do you.” He glanced at the chart, then listened to Covenant’s heart and lungs for himself. “Maybe he’s just stubborn.” He leaned close to Covenant’s face. “Mr. Covenant,” he said, “I don’t know whether you can hear me. If you can, I have some news which may be important to you. I saw Megan Roman yesterday-your lawyer. She said that the township council has decided not to rezone Haven Farm. The way you saved that little girl-well, some people are just a bit ashamed of themselves. It’s hard to take a hero’s home away from him.
“Of course, to be honest I should tell you that Megan performed a little legerdemain for you. She’s a sharp lawyer, Mr. Covenant. She thought the council might think twice about evicting you if it knew that a national news magazine was going to do a human interest story on the famous author who saves children from rattlesnakes. None of our politicians were very eager for headlines like ‘Town Ostracizes Hero.’ But the point is that you’ll be able to keep Haven Farm.”
The older man receded. After a moment, Covenant heard him say to the other doctor, “You still haven’t told me why you’re in such high dudgeon.”
“It’s nothing,” the younger man replied as they left the room. “One of our Florence Nightingales suggested that we should kill him off.”
“Who was it? I’ll get the nursing superintendent to transfer her. We’ll get decent care for him from somewhere.”
Their voices drifted away, left Covenant alone in his bed.
He was thinking dimly, A miracle. That’s what it was.
He was a sick man, a victim of Hansen’s disease. But he was not a leper-not just a leper. He had the law of his illness carved in large, undeniable letters on the nerves of his body; but he was more than that. In the end, he had not failed the Land. And he had a heart which could still pump blood, bones which could still bear his weight; he had himself.
Thomas Covenant: Unbeliever.
A miracle.
Despite the stiff pain in his lip, he smiled at the empty room. He felt the smile on his face, and was sure of it.
He smiled because he was alive.
