“Also I desire you to understand that your aid — the service of your white ring — promises the redemption of the Land, the saving of many times many lives. Does our shedding distress you? Then aid us, so that the need for blood may be brought to an end. You cannot serve the Land in any other way.”
Covenant held Gibbon with a glare. Through his teeth, he breathed, “I knew the original Mhoram. The last time I was here, I made him choose between the hope of the Land and the life of one little girl. He chose the girl.” No words could articulate all the bile in his mouth. “You're worse than the Sunbane.”
He expected the na-Mhoram to retort; but Gibbon only blinked, and said, “Then it is sooth that you are the Unbeliever?”
“Yes!” Covenant snapped, casting subterfuge and safety aside. “And I'm not going to let you commit genocide on the Haruchai.”
“Ah.” Gibbon sighed, rising to his feet, “I feared that we would come to this,” He made a placating gesture. “I do not seek your harm. But I see only one means by which we may win your aid. I will ready the Clave for a soothtell. It will reveal the truth you covet. Lies will be exposed, hearts laid bare.”
He moved to the doorway. “Rest now, Halfhand. Eat-regain your strength. Walk where you wish. I ask only that you eschew the Aumbrie and the hold until that which stands between us has been resolved. I will send for you when the soothtell has been prepared.” Without waiting for an answer, he left the suite.
Soothtell, Covenant snarled. His inner voice sounded like a croak. By God, yes!
Ignoring the pain in his neck, he threw off the blankets and went to the next room in search of food.
There was a fresh tray on the table. The room had been closed against the rain, and the air reeked of smoke. Strangely certain now that the Clave would not try to poison or drug nun, he attacked the food, wolfing it down to appease his empty rage. But he did not touch the flask of metheglin; he did not want anything to dull his alertness, hamper his reflexes. He sensed that Gibbon's soothtell would be a crisis, and he meant to survive it.
He felt a compelling need to leave his suite and roam Revelstone, measuring his tension and resolve against the huge Keep. But he did not. Exerting a leper's discipline, he sat down in one of the chairs, stretched his legs to another, rested his sore neck on the chairback, and forced himself to be still. Muscle by muscle, he loosened his body, relaxed his forehead, softened his pulse, in an effort to achieve the concentration and poise he required in order to be ready.
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?”