Then he stopped. He did not ask permission to remain with Covenant; his stance showed that he had no intention of leaving.
Because Covenant said nothing. Linden breathed for him, “Thanks. Thanks for coming.” Her voice ached on behalf of the innocent men and women who were Gibbon's victims-and of her companions, who had no choice—
But Covenant had passed beyond the details of pain and loss into a state of utter purpose, of unanodyned grief and quintessential fury. Felling them, Pitchwife weeps as no haruchai has ever wept. That must be true; Cail would not lie. But it was only one more drop in an ocean eating away the very shores of Time. The ocean of Lord Foul's cruelty. Such things could not be permitted to continue.
Lifting himself out of vertigo and Linden's grasp, the Unbeliever started downward again.
She called his name, but he did not answer. With Cail at her side, she came hastening after him.
The way was not long now. Soon he reached the bottom of the stairwell, halted in front of a blank wall that he remembered-a wall with an invisible door which he had seen only once before and never been asked to open. He did not know how to open it. But that did not matter. What mattered was that Gibbon had chosen this place, this place, for his battleground. Simple dismay added a twist which nearly snapped the knot of Covenant's self-command.
But he was not required to breach the door for himself. It opened inward at Gibbon's word, admitting Covenant, Linden, and Cail to one of the greatest treasures of the old Lords.
To the Hall of Gifts.
After all these centuries, it was still intact. The air was tanged with smoke because the torches Gibbon had set for himself created light by destruction. And that kind of light could not do justice to the wonder of the high cavern. But everything Covenant saw was still intact.
The legacy of the Lords to a future which despised them.
The makers of Revelstone had wrought little in this spacious cave. They had given it a smooth floor, but had not touched the native stone of its walls, the rough columns which rose tremendously to support the ceiling and the rest of the Keep. Yet that lack of finish suited the purpose for which the Hall had been conceived. The rude surfaces everywhere displayed the best work of the finest artists and craftspeople of the ancient Land.
Tapestries and paintings behung the walls, defying the decay of centuries-preserved by some skill of the artists or quality of the Hall's atmosphere. Stands between the columns held large sculptures and carvings. Small pieces rested on wooden shelves cunningly attached to the stone. Many different fabrics were displayed; but all the other works were made of either wood or stone, the two fundamental materials which the Land had once revered. The Hall contained no metal of any description.
Covenant had not forgotten this place, never forgotten it; but he thought now that he had forgotten its pricelessness. It seemed to bring everything back to him in a rush, every treasured or abhorred memory: Lena and Atiaran, love and rape; Mhoram's hazardous and indefeasible compassion; the unscrupulous lore of ur-viles; Kevin in his despair; Ranyhyn as proud as wind; Ramen as stubborn as earth. And Giants, Giants on all sides. Giants wondrously depicted with their fealty and grief and grandeur wreathed about them as if the tapestries and stone-works and carvings were numinous with eternity. Here the people of the Land had shown what they could do when they were given peace.
And it was here, in this place of destructible beauty and heritage, that Gibbon-Raver had chosen to challenge Covenant for the survival of the Earth.
The Banefire Moving unconsciously inward, as if he were blind to the brink of madness gaping at his feet, Covenant went to meet the na-Mhoram.
Stark in his black robe and scarlet chasuble, with his iron crozier held ready and his red eyes bright, Gibbon stood on a mosaic which swirled through the centre of the floor Covenant had not seen that mosaic before; it must have been set at a later time. It was formed of small stone chips the colour of aliantha and agony; and it portrayed Kevin Landwaster at the Ritual of Desecration. Unlike most of the works around it, it conveyed no sense of underlying affirmation. Instead, it expressed Kevin's lurid and extreme pain as if that were a source of satisfaction.
Gibbon had taken his position over the Landwaster's heart.
At the edge of the mosaic, Honninscrave knelt in the stone.
Covenant's entrance into the Hall of Gifts did not make the Giant look up, though his head was the only part of himself he could have moved. By some cunning of Gibbon-Raver's power, Honninscrave had been fused into the floor. Kneeling, he had sunk into it to the middle of his thighs and forearms as though it were quicksand. Then it had solidified around him, imprisoning him absolutely.
His eyes stared in despair at the failure of his life. Loss scarred his face with memories of Seadreamer and Starfare's Gem.
And the na-Mhoram laughed.
“See you, Unbeliever?” His voice was crimson and eager. “No Unbelief will redeem you now. I will spare you only if you grovel.”
In response, Cail sprang past Covenant toward Gibbon as if he thought he could shatter the Raver.
But Gibbon was ready. His fist tightened on his crozier; fire spread from the open triangle at its tip.
An involuntary scream tore through Honninscrave.
Cail leaped to a halt, stood almost trembling a few feet from the na-Mhoram.
“I know you, Haruchai,” the Raver breathed softly, savagely. “The groveller you serve will not assail me-he values the relics of his dead past and fears to harm them. He values the lost Earth. But you have not the folly of that scruple. Yet you remain a fool. You will not require me to crush the life of this mad Giant who sought to confront me, deeming me as paltry as himself.”
Cail turned on his heel, strode back to Covenant's side. His visage held no expression. But sweat beaded on his temples, and the muscles at the corners of his eyes squeezed and released like the labour of his heart.
Linden tried to curse, but the words came out like wincing. Instinctively, she had placed herself half behind Covenant.
“Hear you?” Gibbon went on, raising his voice so that it contaminated every comer of the great Hall. “You are all fools, and you will not lift finger or flame against me. You will do naught but grovel at my whim or die. You are beaten, Unbeliever. You fear to destroy that which you love. Your love is cowardice, and you are beaten.”
Covenant's throat closed as if he were choking on smoke.
“And you. Linden Avery.” The na-Mhoram's raw contempt filled the air. “Knowing my touch, you have yet dared me again. And this you name victory to yourself, thinking that such folly expiates your rooted evil. You conceive that we have misesteemed you, that you have put aside Despite. But your belief is anile. You have not yet tasted the depths of your Desecration.
“Hear you all?” he cried suddenly, exalted by malice. “You are damned beyond description, and I will feast upon your souls.”
Torn between outrage and visceral horror, Linden made whimpering noises between her teeth. She had come this far because she loved Covenant and loathed evil; but Gibbon appalled her in every nerve and fiber of her being. Her face was as pale as a gravestone; her eyes stared like wounds Covenant had gone numb to everything else; but he was still aware of her. He knew what was happening to her. She was being ripped apart by her desire for the power to crush Gibbon-to extirpate him as if he were the part of herself she most hated.
If she did that, if she took hold of Covenant's fire and wielded it for herself, she would be lost. The inheritance of her parents would overcome her. Destroying Gibbon, she would shape herself in his image, affirm the blackness which had twisted her life.