White Gold Wielder

his head. His knees folded, and he sagged to the floor Covenant had never seen one of the Haruchai fall like that.

Fole started after Linden; but a kick caught him by the shoulder, knocked him aside.

Then both Coursers reared over Linden.

Her face was clear in the reflected light from the courtyard, Covenant expected to see panic, paralysis, horror; and he gulped for air, struggled to put out power fast enough to aid her. But her visage showed no fear. It was argute with concentration: her eyes stabbed up at the beasts. Every line of her features was as precise as a command.

And the Coursers faltered. For an instant, they did not plunge at her. Somehow with no power to support her she drove her percipience into their minds, confused them.

Their minds were brutish, and the Banefire was strong. She could not hold them for more than an instant. But that was enough.

Before they recovered, Mistweave crashed into them like a battering-ram.

He had once left Linden in peril of her life because he had not been able to choose between her and Honninscrave; and that failure had haunted him ever since. But now he saw his chance to make restitution-and did not mean to let any mortal pain or weakness stop him. Ignoring his hurts, he threw himself to Linden's rescue.

His right arm flopped at his side, but his left was still strong. His initial charge knocked both Coursers back. One of them fell onto its side; and he followed it at once, struck it a blow which made its head rebound with a sickening thud from the bard stone, its body quiver and lie still.

Wheeling, he met the second Courser as it rose to pound down on him. His good hand caught it by the gullet; his fingers ground inward to strangle the beast.

Its fangs gaped for his face. Its eyes flared insanely. Its forehooves slashed at his shoulders, tearing him with its spurs; blood streamed down his sides. But Linden had saved his life when he had been more deeply injured than this-and he had failed her. He would not do so again.

He held the beast until Fole and the other Haruchai came to his aid. They grabbed its forelegs, turned its spurs against itself. In a moment, the Courser was dead. Mistweave dropped it heavily to the floor.

His muscles began to tremble as the poison worked its way into him.

Then the fighting was over. Gasps and silence echoed from the far end of the forehall. Grimly, Covenant gained his feet to stumble desperately toward Linden and Mistweave.

She had not been harmed. Mistweave and the Haruchai had taken all the hurt onto themselves. Her eyes ran as if the wounds of her friends had been etched on her heart. Yet the shape of her mouth and the angles of her cheeks were sharp with wrath. She looked like a woman who would never be paralyzed again. If she had spoken, she might have said. Just let him try. Just let that butchering sonofabitch try.

Before Covenant could summon any words, the First reached his side.

She was panting with exultation. Her eyes were bright, and her blade dripped thick blood. But she did not talk of such things. When she addressed him, she took him by surprise.

“The Master is gone,” she said through her teeth. “He pursues his purpose inward. I know not what he seeks-but I fear that he will find it.”

Behind her, Pitchwife retched for air as if his exertions had torn the tissues of his cramped lungs. Mistweave shivered toward convulsions as Courser-poison spread into him. Sunder's face was grey with exhaustion; Hollian had to hold him to keep him on his feet. Six of the Haruchai had been burned by the Grim and nearly crippled; one was in Mistweave's plight, gouged by a spur during the battle. Findail had vanished. Linden looked as bitter as acid.

And Honninscrave was gone. Nom was gone. Seeking their individual conceptions of ruin in the heart of Revelstone.

Too many lives. Too much pain. And Covenant was no closer to his goal than the entrance hall of the na- Mhoram's Keep.

That tears it, he thought dumbly. That is absolutely enough. I will not take any more of this.

“Linden,” he said thickly. His voice was hoarse with fire. “Tell Pitchwife how to treat these people.”

For an instant, her eyes widened. He feared that she would demur. She was a physician: seven Haruchai and Mistweave needed her sorely. But then she seemed to understand him. The Land also required healing. And she had wounds of her own which demanded care.

Turning to Pitchwife, she said, “You've got some vitrim left.” In spite of the Banefire, her senses had become explicit, immune to bafflement. “Use it on the bums. Give diamondraught to everybody who's hurt.” Then she gazed squarely back at Covenant. “Mistweave's arm can wait. But voure is the only thing I know of that'll help against the poison.”

He did not hesitate; he had no hesitation left. “Cail,” he said, “you know Revelstone. And you know voure.” The distilled sap which the Clave used to ward off the effects of the sun of pestilence had once saved Call's life. “Tell your people to find some.” There were only four Haruchai uninjured. “And tell them to take Sunder and Hollian with them.” Hollian was experienced with voure. “For God's sake, keep them safe.”

Without waiting for a response, he swung toward the First.

“What you ought to do is secure our retreat.” His tone thickened like blood. He had told all his companions to stay out of Revelstone, and none of them obeyed. But they would obey him now. He would not accept refusal. “But it's too late for that. I want you to go after Honninscrave. Find him somehow. Don't let him do it-whatever it is.”

Then he faced Cail again. “I don't need to be protected. Not anymore. But if there's anybody left in the hold,” any villagers or Haruchai the Clave had not yet shed, “they need help. Break in there somehow. Get them out. Before they're fed to the Banefire.

“Linden and I are going after Gibbon.”

None of his companions protested. He was impossible to refuse. He held the world in his hands, and his skin seemed to be wearing thinner, so that the black power gnawing in him showed more and more clearly. His cut fingers dripped blood; but the wound gave him no pain. When Linden indicated the far end of the forehall, he went in that direction with her, leaving behind him all the needs and problems for which he lacked both strength and time. Leaving behind especially Sunder and Hollian, on whom the future depended; but also the First and Pitchwife, who were dear to him; Mistweave on the verge of convulsions; the proven Haruchai; leaving them behind, not as encumbrances, but as people who were too precious to be risked. Linden also he would have left behind, but he needed her to guide him and to support him. He was hag-ridden by vertigo. The reports of their steps rustled like dry leaves as they moved; and he felt that he was going to the place where all things withered. But he did not look back or turn aside.

When they passed out of the cavern into the mazing, Giant-planned ways of the great Keep, they were suddenly attacked by a small band of Riders. But the proximity of rukh-fire triggered his ring. The Riders were swept away in a wash of midnight.

The dark was complete for a short distance. Ahead, however, the normal lights of the city burned, torches smoking in sconces along the walls. No fires of the Lords had ever smoked: their flames had not harmed the essential wood. The Clave kept its passage lit so that Gibbon could move his forces from place to place; but these halls were empty. They echoed like crypts. Much beauty had died here, been undone by time or malice.

Behind him Covenant heard the sounds of renewed combat; and his shoulders flinched.

“They can take care of themselves,” Linden gritted, holding her fear for her friends between her teeth. “This way.”

Covenant stayed with her as she turned toward a side-passage and started down a long sequence of stairs toward the roots of Revelstone.

Her perception of the Raver made no mistakes. Not uncertainty, but only her ignorance of the Keep, caused her to take occasional corridors or turnings which did not lead toward her goal. At intervals, Riders appeared from nowhere to attack and retreat again as if they raised their fire for no other reason than to mark Covenant's progress through the Keep. They posed no danger in themselves; his defences were instantaneous and thorough. But each onslaught accentuated his dizziness, weakened his control. His ability to suppress the black raving frayed. He had to