Read Online Lord Foul's Bane by Stephen R. Donaldson - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction
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the way to go forward, to flee the dark madness which hovered over him. In that brief vision of Desolation, he found the path of the dream. Skipping transitions so that he would not have to ask or answer certain questions, he said, “I've got to go to the Council of Lords.”
He saw in her face that she wanted to ask him why. But she seemed to feel that it was not her place to question his purpose. His mention of the Council only verified his stature in her eyes. She moved toward the stair. “Come,” she said. “We must go to the Stonedown. There a way will be found to take you to Revelstone.” She looked as if she wanted to go with him.
But the thought of the stair hurt him. How could he negotiate that descent? He could not so much as look over the parapet without dizziness. When Lena repeated, “Come,” he shook his head. He lacked the courage. Yet he had to keep himself active somehow. To Lena's puzzlement, he said, “How long ago was this Desolation?”
“I do not know,” she replied soberly. “But the people of the South Plains came back across the mountains from the bare Wastes twelve generations past. And it is said that they were forewarned by High Lord Kevin- they escaped, and lived in exile in the wilderness by nail and tooth and rhadhamaerl lore for five hundred years. It is a legacy we do not forget. At fifteen, each of us takes the Oath of Peace, and we live for the life and beauty of the Land.”
He hardly heard her; he was not specifically interested in what she said. But he needed the sound of her voice to steady him while he searched himself for strength. With an effort, he found another question he could ask. Breathing deeply, he said, “What were you doing in the mountains- why were you up where you could see me here?”
“I was stone-questing,” she answered. “I am learning suru-pa-maerl . Do you know this craft?”
“No,” he said between breaths. “Tell me.”
"It is a craft I am learning from Acence my mother's sister, and she learned it from Tomal, the best Craftmaster in the memory of our Stonedown. He also studied for a time in the Loresraat. But suru-pa-maerl is a craft of making images from stones without binding or shaping. I walk the hills and search out the shapes of rocks and pebbles. And when I discover a form that I understand, I take it home and find a place for it, balancing or interlocking with other forms until a new form is made.
“Sometimes, when I am very brave, I smooth a roughness to make the joining of the stones steadier. In this way, I remake the broken secrets of the Earth, and give beauty to the people.”
Vaguely, Covenant murmured, “It must be hard to think of a shape and then find the rocks to fit it.”
“That is not the way. I look at the stones, and seek for the shapes that are already in them. I do not ask the Earth to give me a horse. The craft is in learning to see what it is the Earth chooses to offer. Perhaps it will be a horse.”
“I would like to see your work.” Covenant paid no attention to what he was saying. The stairs beckoned him like the seductive face of forgetfulness, in which lepers lost their self-protective disciplines, their hands and feet, their lives.
But he was dreaming. The way to endure a dream was to flow with it until it ended. He had to make that descent in order to survive. That need outweighed all other considerations.
Abruptly, convulsively, he hauled himself to his feet. Planting himself squarely in the centre of the circle, he ignored the mountain and the sky, ignored the long fall below him, and gave himself a thorough examination. Trembling, he probed his still living nerves for aches or twinges, scanned his clothing for snags, rents, inspected his numb hands.
He had to put that stair behind him.
He could survive it because it was a dream- it could not kill him- and because he could not stand all this darkness beating about his ears.
“Now, listen,” he snapped at Lena. “I've got to go first. And don't give me
He saw in her face that she wanted to ask him why. But she seemed to feel that it was not her place to question his purpose. His mention of the Council only verified his stature in her eyes. She moved toward the stair. “Come,” she said. “We must go to the Stonedown. There a way will be found to take you to Revelstone.” She looked as if she wanted to go with him.
But the thought of the stair hurt him. How could he negotiate that descent? He could not so much as look over the parapet without dizziness. When Lena repeated, “Come,” he shook his head. He lacked the courage. Yet he had to keep himself active somehow. To Lena's puzzlement, he said, “How long ago was this Desolation?”
“I do not know,” she replied soberly. “But the people of the South Plains came back across the mountains from the bare Wastes twelve generations past. And it is said that they were forewarned by High Lord Kevin- they escaped, and lived in exile in the wilderness by nail and tooth and rhadhamaerl lore for five hundred years. It is a legacy we do not forget. At fifteen, each of us takes the Oath of Peace, and we live for the life and beauty of the Land.”
He hardly heard her; he was not specifically interested in what she said. But he needed the sound of her voice to steady him while he searched himself for strength. With an effort, he found another question he could ask. Breathing deeply, he said, “What were you doing in the mountains- why were you up where you could see me here?”
“I was stone-questing,” she answered. “I am learning suru-pa-maerl . Do you know this craft?”
“No,” he said between breaths. “Tell me.”
"It is a craft I am learning from Acence my mother's sister, and she learned it from Tomal, the best Craftmaster in the memory of our Stonedown. He also studied for a time in the Loresraat. But suru-pa-maerl is a craft of making images from stones without binding or shaping. I walk the hills and search out the shapes of rocks and pebbles. And when I discover a form that I understand, I take it home and find a place for it, balancing or interlocking with other forms until a new form is made.
“Sometimes, when I am very brave, I smooth a roughness to make the joining of the stones steadier. In this way, I remake the broken secrets of the Earth, and give beauty to the people.”
Vaguely, Covenant murmured, “It must be hard to think of a shape and then find the rocks to fit it.”
“That is not the way. I look at the stones, and seek for the shapes that are already in them. I do not ask the Earth to give me a horse. The craft is in learning to see what it is the Earth chooses to offer. Perhaps it will be a horse.”
“I would like to see your work.” Covenant paid no attention to what he was saying. The stairs beckoned him like the seductive face of forgetfulness, in which lepers lost their self-protective disciplines, their hands and feet, their lives.
But he was dreaming. The way to endure a dream was to flow with it until it ended. He had to make that descent in order to survive. That need outweighed all other considerations.
Abruptly, convulsively, he hauled himself to his feet. Planting himself squarely in the centre of the circle, he ignored the mountain and the sky, ignored the long fall below him, and gave himself a thorough examination. Trembling, he probed his still living nerves for aches or twinges, scanned his clothing for snags, rents, inspected his numb hands.
He had to put that stair behind him.
He could survive it because it was a dream- it could not kill him- and because he could not stand all this darkness beating about his ears.
“Now, listen,” he snapped at Lena. “I've got to go first. And don't give me
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