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 gold.
That steadied him. He looked at the na-Mhoram again, and made an intuitive decision not to raise the issue of the door. He had too many other dangers to consider.
“Doubtless,” Gibbon said with perfect blandness, “your neck gives you pain. It will pass. Swarte employed excessive force. I have reprimanded her.”
“How-?” The hurt seemed to cramp his voice. He could barely squeeze out a hoarse whisper. “How long have I been out?”
“It is now midday of the second day of rain.”
Damnation, Covenant groaned. At least one whole day. He tried to estimate how many people the Clave had killed in that period of time, but could not. Perhaps they had killed Brinn-He thrust the idea away.
“Akkasri,” he breathed, filling the name with accusation.
Gibbon nodded calmly. “Akkasri na-Mhoram-in.”
“You lied to me.”
The na-Mhoram's hebetude seemed impervious to offense. “Perhaps. My intent was not false. You came to Revelstone rife with hostility and suspicion. I sought means to allay your mistrust-and at the same time to ward against you if your purpose was evil. Therefore I informed you that Akkasri was of the na-Mhoram-cro. I desired to win your faith. In that I was not false. Guised as a na-Mhoram-cro, Akkasri could answer many questions without presenting to you the apparent threat of power. This I believed because of your treatment of Memla na-Mhoram-in. I regret that the outcome went amiss.”
This sounded plausible; but Covenant rejected it with a shake of his head. Immediately, a stab of soreness made him grimace. Muttering darkly to himself, he massaged his neck. Then he changed the subject, hoping to unsettle Gibbon. “What the hell are you doing with one of the Haruchai in your goddamn prison?”
But the na-Mhoram appeared immune to discomfiture. Folding his arms, he said, "I sought to withhold that knowledge from you. Already you believe that you have sufficient cause for mistrust. I desired that you should have no more such reasons until you learned to see the sovereign importance of our work."
Abruptly, Gibbon went in another direction. “Halfhand, did the Haruchai name you truly? Are you indeed ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder?”
“What difference does that make?” growled Covenant.
“That name is mentioned often in the ancient legends. After the First Betrayer, Thomas Covenant was the greatest of all a-Jeroth's servants.”
“That's ridiculous.” This new distortion of the Land's history dismayed him. But he was determined to evade Gibbon's snare. “How could I possibly be that Thomas Covenant? Where I come from, the name's common. So are white gold rings.”
Gibbon gazed redly at him; but Covenant did not blink. A lie for a lie, he rasped. Finally, the na-Mhoram admitted, “You have not the look of such age.” Then he went on, "But I was speaking of the Haruchai.
“Halfhand, we have not one Haruchai in our hold. We have threescore and seven.”
Three-! Covenant could not keep the horror off his face.
“There.” Gibbon gestured at him. “I had cause to fear your response.”
“By God!” Covenant spat fiercely. “You ought to fear the Haruchai! Don't you know what you're dealing with?”
“I respect them entirely.” The na-Mhoram's dull calm was complete. “Their blood is potent and precious.”
They were my friends! Covenant could hardly refrain from shouting aloud. What in the name of all bloody hellfire and damnation do you think you're doing?
“Halfhand, you know that our work requires blood,” Gibbon continued reasonably. "As the Sunbane grows, the Banefire must grow to resist it. We are long beyond the time when the people of the Land could meet all our need.
“Five generations past, when Offin na-Mhoram led the Clave, he was faced with the defeat of our dream. He had neared the limit of what the Land could supply, and it did not suffice. I will not dwell on his despair. It is enough to say that at that time-by chance or mercy-the Haruchai came to our aid.”
He shrugged. "It is true that they did not intend the aid we found in them. Five came from the Westron Mountains in the name of their legends, seeking the Council. But Offin did not flinch his opportunity. He took the five captive.
“With the passage of time, five more came in search of their lost kindred. These also were captured. They were hardy and feral, but the power of the Banefire mastered them. And later more Haruchai came seeking the lost. First by five, then by ten, then by the score they came, with long lapses between. They are a stubborn people, and generation after generation they did not relent. Generation after generation, they were captured.” Covenant thought he saw a glint of amusement in Gibbon's red eyes. "As their numbers increased, so grew the Banefire. Thus not a one of them prevailed or escaped.
“Their most recent foray comprised five score-a veritable army in their sight.” Gibbon's blandness sounded like the serenity of a pure heart. “Threescore and seven remain.”
An abomination. The na-Mhoram's tale made Covenant ache for violence. He could hardly muffle his vehemence as he asked, “Is this supposed to convince me that you're my friend?”
“I do not seek your conviction here,” replied Gibbon. "I seek only to explain, so that you will comprehend why I sought to withhold this knowledge-and why Swarte struck you when you beheld the Haruchai, You must perceive the extent of our consecration to our task. We count any one life-or any score of lives-or any myriad-as nothing against the life of the Land. The Sunbane is an immense ill, and we must spend immensely to combat it.