Read Online One Tree by Stephen R. Donaldson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
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go numb with shock. The residue of Covenant’s leprosy seemed to well up in her, deadening her. She had done that to him? Brinn went stubbornly about the task of proving to himself that no strength or tool he could wield was capable of penetrating Covenant’s sheath; but she hardly noticed the
Haruchai
. It was her doing.
Because she had tried to possess him. And because he had spared her the full consequences of his power.
Then Brinn blurred and faded as tears disfocused her vision. She could no longer see Covenant, except as a pool of hot argent in the streaked lambency of the lanterns. Was this why Lord Foul had chosen her? So that she would cause Covenant’s death?
Yes. She had done such things before.
She retreated into the numbness as if she needed it, deserved it. But the hands which grasped her shoulders were gentle and demanding. Softly they insisted on her attention, urged her out of her inner morass. They were kind and refused to be denied. When she blinked her gaze clear, she found herself looking into Pitchwife’s pellucid eyes.
He sat in front of her, holding her by the shoulders. The deformation of his spine brought his misshapen face down almost to her level. His lips smiled crookedly.
“It is enough, Chosen,” he breathed in a tone of compassion. “This grief skills nothing. It is as the First has said. The fault is not yours.”
For a moment, he turned his head away. “And also not yours, my wife,” he said to the shadow of the First. “You could not have foreknown this pass.”
Then his attention returned to Linden. “He lives yet, Chosen. He lives. And while he lives, there must be hope. Fix your mind upon that. While we live, it is the meaning of our lives to hope.”
I— She wanted to speak, wanted to bare her dismay to Pitchwife’s empathy. But the words were too terrible to be uttered.
His hands tightened slightly, pulling her posture more upright. “We do not comprehend this caul which he has woven about him. We lack your sight. You must guide us now.” His gentleness tugged at the edges of her heart. “Is this power something to be feared? Has he not perchance brought it into being to preserve his life?”
His words seemed to cast her gaze toward Covenant. She could barely see him through his shield. But she could see Vain. The Demondim-spawn stood near Covenant, and all suggestion of grinning was gone from his black mien. He bore himself as he always did, his hidden purpose untouched by any other morality. He was not even alive in any normal sense. But he concentrated on Covenant’s wracked form as if together they were being put to the question of a cruel doom.
“No.” Linden’s voice husked roughly out of her emptiness. “He still has that venom. He’s dying in there.”
“Then”—Pitchwife’s tone brought her back to his probing—“we must find the means to unweave this power, so that he may be succored.”
At that, her stomach turned over in protest. She wanted to cry out, Weren’t you watching? I tried to
possess
him. This is my doing. But her ire was useless; and the Giant’s empathy sloughed it away. Her remaining bitterness compressed itself into one word: “How?”
“Ah, Chosen.” Pitchwife smiled like a shrug. “That you must tell me.”
She flinched, closed her eyes. Unconsciously her hands covered her face. Had she not done enough harm? Did he want her to actually hold the knife that killed Covenant?
But Pitchwife did not relent. “We lack your sight,” he repeated in quiet suasion. “You must guide us. Think on hope. Clearly we cannot pierce this caul. Very well. Then we must answer it with understanding. What manner of power is it? What has transpired in his mind, that he is driven to such defense? What need is occulted within him? Chosen.” Again his hands tightened, half lifting her to her feet. “How may we appeal to him, so that he will permit our aid?”
“Appeal—?” The suggestion drew a gasp of bile from her. Her arms
Haruchai
. It was her doing.
Because she had tried to possess him. And because he had spared her the full consequences of his power.
Then Brinn blurred and faded as tears disfocused her vision. She could no longer see Covenant, except as a pool of hot argent in the streaked lambency of the lanterns. Was this why Lord Foul had chosen her? So that she would cause Covenant’s death?
Yes. She had done such things before.
She retreated into the numbness as if she needed it, deserved it. But the hands which grasped her shoulders were gentle and demanding. Softly they insisted on her attention, urged her out of her inner morass. They were kind and refused to be denied. When she blinked her gaze clear, she found herself looking into Pitchwife’s pellucid eyes.
He sat in front of her, holding her by the shoulders. The deformation of his spine brought his misshapen face down almost to her level. His lips smiled crookedly.
“It is enough, Chosen,” he breathed in a tone of compassion. “This grief skills nothing. It is as the First has said. The fault is not yours.”
For a moment, he turned his head away. “And also not yours, my wife,” he said to the shadow of the First. “You could not have foreknown this pass.”
Then his attention returned to Linden. “He lives yet, Chosen. He lives. And while he lives, there must be hope. Fix your mind upon that. While we live, it is the meaning of our lives to hope.”
I— She wanted to speak, wanted to bare her dismay to Pitchwife’s empathy. But the words were too terrible to be uttered.
His hands tightened slightly, pulling her posture more upright. “We do not comprehend this caul which he has woven about him. We lack your sight. You must guide us now.” His gentleness tugged at the edges of her heart. “Is this power something to be feared? Has he not perchance brought it into being to preserve his life?”
His words seemed to cast her gaze toward Covenant. She could barely see him through his shield. But she could see Vain. The Demondim-spawn stood near Covenant, and all suggestion of grinning was gone from his black mien. He bore himself as he always did, his hidden purpose untouched by any other morality. He was not even alive in any normal sense. But he concentrated on Covenant’s wracked form as if together they were being put to the question of a cruel doom.
“No.” Linden’s voice husked roughly out of her emptiness. “He still has that venom. He’s dying in there.”
“Then”—Pitchwife’s tone brought her back to his probing—“we must find the means to unweave this power, so that he may be succored.”
At that, her stomach turned over in protest. She wanted to cry out, Weren’t you watching? I tried to
possess
him. This is my doing. But her ire was useless; and the Giant’s empathy sloughed it away. Her remaining bitterness compressed itself into one word: “How?”
“Ah, Chosen.” Pitchwife smiled like a shrug. “That you must tell me.”
She flinched, closed her eyes. Unconsciously her hands covered her face. Had she not done enough harm? Did he want her to actually hold the knife that killed Covenant?
But Pitchwife did not relent. “We lack your sight,” he repeated in quiet suasion. “You must guide us. Think on hope. Clearly we cannot pierce this caul. Very well. Then we must answer it with understanding. What manner of power is it? What has transpired in his mind, that he is driven to such defense? What need is occulted within him? Chosen.” Again his hands tightened, half lifting her to her feet. “How may we appeal to him, so that he will permit our aid?”
“Appeal—?” The suggestion drew a gasp of bile from her. Her arms
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