It approached until it was close enough to light the man who held it. He was a short, stooped figure wearing a sodden robe. Rain gushed through his sparse hair and tangled beard, streamed in runnels down the creases of his old face, giving him a look of lunacy. He squinted at Covenant and Linden as if they had been incarnated out of nightmares to appal him.
Covenant held himself still, returned the old man's stare mutely.
Linden touched his arm as if she wanted to warn bun of something.
Suddenly, the old man jerked up his right hand, raised it with the palm forward, and spread his fingers.
Covenant copied the gesture. He did not know whether or not Lord Foul had prepared this encounter for him. But he needed shelter, food, information. And he was prepared to acknowledge anyone who could keep a brand alight in this rain. As he lifted his half-hand into the light, his ring gleamed dully on the second finger.
The sight shocked the old man. He winced, mumbled to himself, retreated a step as if in fear. Then he pointed tremulously at Covenant's ring. “White gold?” he cried. His voice shook.
“Yes!” Covenant replied.
“Halfhand?”
“Yes!”
“How are you named?” the man quavered.
Covenant struggled to drive each word through the storm. “Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder!”
“Illender?” gasped the man as if the rain were suffocating him. “Prover of Life?”
“Yes!”
The old man retreated another step. The torchlight gave his visage a dismayed look. Abruptly, he turned, started scrambling frailly upward through the water and muck.
Over his shoulder, he wailed, “Come!”
“Who is that?” Linden asked almost inaudibly.
Covenant dismissed the question. “I don't know.”
She scrutinized him. “Do you trust him?”
“Who has a choice?” Before she could respond, he pushed away from the stone, used all his energy to force himself into motion after the old man.
His mouth was full of rain and the sour taste of weakness. The strain of the past weeks affected him like caducity. But the torch helped him find handholds on the walls and boulders. With Linden's support, he was able to heave forward against the heavy stream. Slowly, they made progress.
Some distance up the ravine, the old man entered a cut branching off to the right. A rough stair in the side of the cut led to its bottom. Freed of the torrents, Covenant found the strength to ask himself, Do you trust him? But the torch reassured him. He knew of nobody who could keep a brand burning in rain except the masters of wood-lore. Or the Lords. He was ready to trust anybody who served wood or stone with such potent diligence.
Carefully, he followed the old man along the bottom of the cut until it narrowed, became a high sheer cleft in the mountain rock. Then, abruptly, the cleft changed directions and opened into a small dell.
Towering peaks sheltered the vale from the wind. But there was no escape from the rain. It thrashed Covenant's head and shoulders like a club. He could barely see the torch as the old man crossed the valley.
With Linden, Covenant waded a swollen stream; and moments later they arrived at a squat stone dwelling which sat against the mountainside. The entry had no door; firelight scattered out at them as they approached. Hurrying now, they burst bedraggled and dripping into the single room of the house.
The old man stood in the centre of the room, still clutching his torch though a bright fire blazed in the hearth beyond him. He peered at Covenant with trepidation, ready to cringe, like a child expecting punishment.
Covenant stopped. His bruises ached to be near the fire; but he remained still to look around the room.
At once, a pang of anxiety smote him. Already, he could see that something had changed in the Land. Something fundamental.
The dwelling was furnished with an unexpected mixture of wood and stone. Stoneware bowls and urns sat on wooden shelves affixed to the sidewalls; wooden stools stood around a wooden table in one stone corner. And iron-there were iron utensils on the shelves, iron nails in the stools. Formerly, the people of stone and wood, Stonedownor and Woodhelvennin, had each kept to his own lore-not because they wished to be exclusive, but rather because then-special skills and knowledge required all their devotion.
For a moment, he faced the man, bore the old, half-wild gaze. Linden, too, studied the old man, measuring him uncertainly. But Covenant knew she was asking herself questions unlike the ones which mobbed into his mind. Had the Stonedownors and Woodhelvennin grown together, blended their lore? Or had-?
The world is not what it was.
A raw sickness twisted his heart. Without warning, he became conscious of smoke in the room.
Smoke!
He thrust past the old man, hastened to the hearth.
The wood lay on a pile of ash, burning warmly. Coals cracked and fell off the logs, red worms gnawing the flesh of trees. At intervals, wisps of smoke curled up into the room. The rain in the chimney made a low hissing noise.
Hellfire!
The people he had known here would never have voluntarily consumed wood for any purpose. They had always striven to use the life of wood, the Earthpower in it, without destroying the thing they used. Wood, soil, stone, water-the people of the Land had cherished every manifestation of life.
“Ur-Lord,” the old man groaned.
Covenant whirled. Grief burned like rage in him. He wanted to howl at the Despiser, What have you done? But both Linden and the old man were staring at him. Linden's eyes showed concern, as if she feared he had slipped over the edge into confusion. And the old man was in the grip of a private anguish. Fiercely, Covenant contained the yelling of his passion. But the strain of suppression bristled in his tone. “What keeps that torch burning?”
“I am ashamed!” The man's voice broke as if he were on the verge of weeping. He did not hear Covenant's question; his personal distress devoured him. “This temple,” he panted, “built by the most ancient fathers of my father's father-in preparation. We have done nothing! Other rooms fallen to ruin, sanctuaries-” He waved his brand fervidly. “We did nothing. In a score of generations, nothing. It is a hovel-unworthy of you. We did not believe the promise given into our trust-generation after generation of Unfettered too craven to put faith in the proudest prophecies. It would be right for you to strike me.”
“Strike you?” Covenant was taken aback. “No.” There were too many things here he did not understand. “What's the matter? Why are you afraid of me?”
“Covenant,” Linden breathed suddenly. “His hand. Look.”
Water dripped from the old man; water ran from them all. But the drops falling from the butt of the torch were red.
“Ur-Lord!” The man plunged to his knees. “I am unworthy.” He quivered with dismay. “I have trafficked in the knowledge of the wicked, gaining power against the Sunbane from those who scorn the promises I have sworn to preserve. Ah, spare me! I am shamed.” He dropped his brand, opened his left hand to Covenant.
The torch went out the instant he released it. As it struck the floor, it fell into ash.
Across his palm lay two long cuts. Blood ran from them as if it could not stop.
Covenant flinched. Thunder muttered angrily to itself in the distance. Nothing was left of the torch except ash. It had been held together, kept whole and burning, only by the power the old man had put into it. The power of his blood?
Covenant's brain reeled. A sudden memory of Joan stung him-Joan clawing the back of his hand, licking his fingers. Vertigo reft him of balance. He sat down heavily, slumped against the nearest wall. The rain echoed in his ears. Blood? Blood?