Read Online The 1st Chronicles of Thomas Covenant #2: The Illearth War by Stephen R. Donaldson - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
Tags: Fantasy
Ads: Link
cold numbness of dead nerves was gone from them, warmed away by a healing glow which reached into the marrow of his bones.
The change in his fingers was even ‘more obvious. His right fist was knotted in the sheets. When he moved his fingers, he could feel the texture of the cloth with their tips. The grip on his left hand was so hard that he could feel the pulse in his knuckles.
But nerves do not regenerate-cannot
Damnation! he groaned. The sensation of touch prodded his heart like fear.
Involuntarily, he whispered, “No. No.” But his tone was full of futility.
“Ah, my friend,” Mhoram sighed, “your dreams have been full of such refusals.
But I do not understand them. I hear in your breathing that you have resisted your own healing. And the outcome is obscure to me. I cannot tell whether your denials have brought you to good or ill.”
Covenant looked up into Mhoram’s sympathetic face. The Lord still sat beside the bed; his iron-shod staff leaned against the wall within easy reach of his hand. But now there were no torches in the room. Sunlight poured through a large oriel beside the bed.
Mhoram’s gaze made Covenant acutely conscious of their clasped hands.
Carefully, he extricated his fingers. Then he propped himself up on his elbows, and asked how long he had been asleep. His rest after the shouting he had done in the Close made his voice rattle harshly in his throat.
“It is now early afternoon,” Mhoram replied. “The summoning was performed in the evening yesterday.”
“Have you been here-all that time?”
The Lord smiled. “No. During the night How shall I say it? I was called away.
High Lord Elena sat with you in my absence.” After a moment, he added, “She will speak with you this evening, if you are willing.” Covenant did not respond. The mention of Elena reawakened his outrage and fear at the act which had compelled him into the Land.
He thought of the summoning as her doing; it was her voice which had snatched him away from Joan. Joan! he wailed. To a cover his distress, he climbed out of bed, gathered up his clothes, and went in search of a place to wash himself.
In the next room, he found a stone basin and tub j connected to a series of balanced stone valves which allowed him to run water where he wanted it. He filled , the basin. When he put his hands into the water, its sharp chill thrilled the new vitality of his nerves. Angrily, he thrust his head down into the water, and did not raise it until the cold began to make the bones of his skull hurt. Then he went and stood dripping over a warm pot of graveling near the tub.
While the glow of the fire-stones dried him, he silenced the aching of his heart.
He was a leper, and knew down to the core of his skeleton the vital importance of recognizing facts. Joan was lost to him; that was a fact, like his disease, beyond any possibility of change. She would become angry when he did not speak to her, and would hang up, thinking that he had deliberately rebuffed her appeal, her proud, brave effort to bridge the loneliness between them. And he could do nothing about it. He was trapped in his delusion again. If he meant to survive, he could not afford the luxury of grieving over lost hopes. He was a leper; all his hopes were false. They were his enemies. They could kill him by blinding him to the lethal power of facts.
It was a fact that the Land was a delusion. It was a fact that he was trapped, caught in the web of his own weakness. His leprosy was a fact. He insisted on these things while he protested weakly to himself, Not I can’t stand it! But the cold water dried from his skin, and was replaced by the kind, earthy warmth of the graveling. Sensations ran excitedly up his limbs from his fingers and toes. With a wild, stubborn look as if he were battering his head against a wall, he gave himself a VSE.
Then he located a mirror of polished stone, and used it to inspect his forehead. No mark was there the hurtloam had erased
The change in his fingers was even ‘more obvious. His right fist was knotted in the sheets. When he moved his fingers, he could feel the texture of the cloth with their tips. The grip on his left hand was so hard that he could feel the pulse in his knuckles.
But nerves do not regenerate-cannot
Damnation! he groaned. The sensation of touch prodded his heart like fear.
Involuntarily, he whispered, “No. No.” But his tone was full of futility.
“Ah, my friend,” Mhoram sighed, “your dreams have been full of such refusals.
But I do not understand them. I hear in your breathing that you have resisted your own healing. And the outcome is obscure to me. I cannot tell whether your denials have brought you to good or ill.”
Covenant looked up into Mhoram’s sympathetic face. The Lord still sat beside the bed; his iron-shod staff leaned against the wall within easy reach of his hand. But now there were no torches in the room. Sunlight poured through a large oriel beside the bed.
Mhoram’s gaze made Covenant acutely conscious of their clasped hands.
Carefully, he extricated his fingers. Then he propped himself up on his elbows, and asked how long he had been asleep. His rest after the shouting he had done in the Close made his voice rattle harshly in his throat.
“It is now early afternoon,” Mhoram replied. “The summoning was performed in the evening yesterday.”
“Have you been here-all that time?”
The Lord smiled. “No. During the night How shall I say it? I was called away.
High Lord Elena sat with you in my absence.” After a moment, he added, “She will speak with you this evening, if you are willing.” Covenant did not respond. The mention of Elena reawakened his outrage and fear at the act which had compelled him into the Land.
He thought of the summoning as her doing; it was her voice which had snatched him away from Joan. Joan! he wailed. To a cover his distress, he climbed out of bed, gathered up his clothes, and went in search of a place to wash himself.
In the next room, he found a stone basin and tub j connected to a series of balanced stone valves which allowed him to run water where he wanted it. He filled , the basin. When he put his hands into the water, its sharp chill thrilled the new vitality of his nerves. Angrily, he thrust his head down into the water, and did not raise it until the cold began to make the bones of his skull hurt. Then he went and stood dripping over a warm pot of graveling near the tub.
While the glow of the fire-stones dried him, he silenced the aching of his heart.
He was a leper, and knew down to the core of his skeleton the vital importance of recognizing facts. Joan was lost to him; that was a fact, like his disease, beyond any possibility of change. She would become angry when he did not speak to her, and would hang up, thinking that he had deliberately rebuffed her appeal, her proud, brave effort to bridge the loneliness between them. And he could do nothing about it. He was trapped in his delusion again. If he meant to survive, he could not afford the luxury of grieving over lost hopes. He was a leper; all his hopes were false. They were his enemies. They could kill him by blinding him to the lethal power of facts.
It was a fact that the Land was a delusion. It was a fact that he was trapped, caught in the web of his own weakness. His leprosy was a fact. He insisted on these things while he protested weakly to himself, Not I can’t stand it! But the cold water dried from his skin, and was replaced by the kind, earthy warmth of the graveling. Sensations ran excitedly up his limbs from his fingers and toes. With a wild, stubborn look as if he were battering his head against a wall, he gave himself a VSE.
Then he located a mirror of polished stone, and used it to inspect his forehead. No mark was there the hurtloam had erased
Similar Books
