srdonaldson.thepowerthatpreserves-第58部分

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erl　will　grieve。　The　time　has　e　for　mourning。〃
　　　　From　the　top　of　the　stairs；　an　excited　voice　cried；　〃High　Lord！　The　dead！　They　have　all　fallen　into　sand！　Satansfist　has　exhausted　this　attack。　The　gates　hold！〃
　　　　Through　his　tears；　Mhoram　looked　around　the　Close。　It　was　badly　damaged。　The　Lords'　table　and　chairs　had　melted；　the　steps　were　uneven；　and　most　of　the　lower　tiers　had　been　misshaped　by　the　fire。　But　the　place　had　survived。　The　Keep　had　survived。　Mhoram　nodded　to　Tohrm。　〃It　is　time。〃
　　　　His　sight　was　so　blurred　with　tears　that　he　seemed　to　see　two　blue…robed　figures　moving　down　the　stairs　toward　him。　He　blinked　his　tears　away；　and　saw　that　Lord　Loerya　was　with　Amatin。
　　　　Her　presence　explained　the　protection　which　had　saved　him　and　Tohrm；　she　had　joined　her　strength　to　Amatin's。
　　　　When　she　reached　him；　she　looked　gravely　into　his　face。　He　searched　her　for　shame　or　distress　but　saw　only　regret。　〃I　left　them　with　the　Unfettered　One　at　Glimmermere；〃　she　explained　quietly。　〃Perhaps　they　will　be　safe。　I　returned…when　I　found　courage。〃
　　　　Then　something　at　Mhoram's　side　caught　her　attention。　Wonder　lit　her　face；　and　she　turned　him　so　that　he　was　looking　at　the　table　which　held　Loric's　krill。
　　　　The　table　was　intact。
　　　　In　its　center；　the　gem　of　the　krill　blazed　with　a　pure　white　fire；　as　radiant　as　hope。
　　　　Mhoram　heard　someone　say；　〃Ur…Lord　Covenant　has　returned　to　the　Land。〃　But　he　could　no　longer　tell　what　was　happening　around　him。　His　tears　seemed　to　blind　all　his　senses。
　　　　Following　the　light　of　the　gem；　he　reached　out　his　hand　and　clasped　the　krill's　haft。　In　its　intense　heat；　he　felt　the　truth　of　what　he　had　heard。　The　Unbeliever　had　returned。
　　　　With　his　new　might；　he　gripped　the　krill　and　pulled　it　easily　from　the　stone。　Its　edges　were　so　sharp　that　when　he　held　the　knife　in　his　hand　he　could　see　their　keenness。　His　power　protected　him　from　the　heat。
　　　　He　turned　to　his　panions　with　a　smile　that　felt　like　a　ray　of　sunshine　on　his　face。
　　　　〃Summon　Lord　Trevor；〃　he　said　gladly。　〃I　have…a　knowledge　of　power　that　I　wish　to　share　with　you。〃
　
　TWELVE　
　Amanibhavam
　
　　　　Hate。
　　　　It　was　the　only　thought　in　Covenant's　mind。　The　weight　of　things　he　had　not　known　crushed　everything　else。
　　　　Hate。
　　　　He　clung　to　the　unanswered　question　as　he　pried　himself　with　the　spear　up　over　the　rim　of　the　hollow　and　hobbled　down　beyond　the　last　ember…light　of　Pietten's　fire。
　　　　Hate。
　　　　His　crippled　foot　dragged　along　the　ground；　grinding　the　splintered　bones　of　his　ankle　together　until　beads　of　excruciation　burst　from　his　pores　and　froze　in　the　winter　wind。　But　he　clutched　the　shaft　of　the　spear　and　lurched　ahead；　down　that　hillside　and　diagonally　up　the　next。　The　wind　cut　against　his　right　cheek；　but　he　paid　no　attention　to　it；　he　turned　gradually　toward　the　right　because　of　the　steepness　of　the　hill；　not　because　he　had　any　awareness　of　direction。　When　the　convolution　of　the　next　slope　bent　him　northward　again；　away　from　the　Plains　of　Ra　and　his　only　friends；　he　followed　it；　tottered　down　it；　fluttering　in　the　wind　like　a　maimed　wildman；　thinking　only：
　　　　Hate。
　　　　Atiaran　Trell…mate　had　said　that　it　was　the　responsibility　of　the　living　to　make　meaningful　the　sacrifices　of　the　dead。　He　had　a　whole　Land　full　of　death　to　make　meaningful。　Behind　him；　Lena　lay　slain　in　her　own　blood；　with　a　wooden　spike　through　her　bell｝。　Elena　was　buried　somewhere　in　the　bowels　of　Melenkurion　Sky　weir；　dead　in　her　private　apocalypse　because　of　his　manipulations　and　his　failures。　She　had　never　even　existed。　Ranyhyn　had　been　starved　and　slaughtered。　Banner　and　Foamfollower　might　be　dead　or　in　despair。　Pietten　and　Hile　Troy　and　Trell　and　Triock　were　all　his　fault。　None　of　them　had　ever　existed。　His　pain　did　not　exist。　Nothing　mattered　except　the　one　absolute　question。
　　　　He　moaned　deep　in　his　throat；　〃Hate？〃
　　　　Nothing　could　have　any　meaning　without　the　answer　to　that　question。　Despite　its　multitudinous　disguises；　he　recognized　it　as　the　question　which　had　shaped　his　life　since　the　day　he　had　first　learned　that　he　was　subject　to　the　law　of　leprosy。　Loathing；　self…loathing；　fear；　rape；　murder；　leper　outcast　unclean…they　were　all　the　same　thing。　He　hobbled　in　search　of　the　answer。
　　　　He　was　totally　alone　for　the　first　time　since　the　beginning　of　his　experiences　in　the　Land。
　　　　Sick　gray　dawn　found　him　laboring　vaguely　northeastward…poling　himself　feverishly　with　the　spear；　and　shivering　in　the　bitter　ague　of　winter。　The　dismal　light　seemed　to　rouse　parts　of　him。　He　plunged　into　the　shallow　lee　of　a　hillside　and　tried　to　take　the　measure　of　his　situation。
　　　　The　shrill　wind　gibed　around　him　as　he　plucked　with　diseased　and　frozen　fingers　at　his　pant　leg。　When　he　succeeded　in　moving　the　fabric；　he　felt　a　numb　surprise　at　the　dark　discoloration　of　his　flesh　above　the　ankle。　His　foot　sat　at　a　crooked　angle　on　his　leg；　and　through　the　crusted　blood　he　could　see　slivers　of　bone　protruding　against　the　thongs　of　his　sandals。
　　　　The　injury　looked　worse　than　it　felt。　Its　pain　grated　in　his　knee　joint　dully；　gouged　aches　up　through　his　thigh　to　his　hip；　but　the　ankle　itself　was　bearable。　Both　his　feet　had　been　frozen　senseless　by　the　cold。　And　both　were　jabbed　and　torn　and　painlessly　infected　like　the　feet　of　a　pilgrim。　He　thought　blankly　that　he　would　probably　lose　the　broken　one。　But　the　possibility　carried　no　weight　with　him；　it　was　just　another　part　of　his　experience　that　did　not　exist。
　　　　There　were　things　that　he　should　have　been　doing　for　himself；　but　he　had　no　idea　what　they　were。　He　had　no　conception　of　anything　except　the　central　need　which　drove　him。　He　lacked　food；　warmth；　knowledge　of　where　he　was　or　where　he　was　going。　Yet　he　was　already　urgent　to　be　moving　again。　Nothing　but　movement　could　keep　his　lifeblood　circulating　…nothing　but　movement　could　help　him　find　his　answer。
　　　　No　tentative　or　half…unready　answer　would　satisfy　his　need。
　　　　He　levered　himself　up；　then　slipped　and　fell；　crying　out　unconsciously　at　the　unfelt　pain。　For　a　moment；　the　winter　roared　in　his　ears　like　a　triumphant　predator。　His　breathing　rasped　him　as　if　claws　of　cold　had　already　torn　his　air　passages　and　lungs。　But　he　braced　the　spear　on　the　hard　earth　again；　and　climbed　up　it　hand　over　hand　until　he　was　erect。　Then　he　lurched　forward　once　more。
　　　　He　forced　himself　up　the　hill　and　beyond　it　to　a　low　ridge　lying　across　his　way　like　a　minor　wall。　His　arms　trembled　at　the　strain　of　bearing　his　weight；　and　his　hands　slipped　repeatedly　on　the　smooth　shaft　of　the　spear。　The　ascent　almost　defeated　him。　When　he　reached　the　top；　air　whooped　brokenly　in　and　out　of　his　frostbitten　lungs；　and　icy　vertigo　made　the　whole　winterscape　cant　raggedly　from　side　to　side。　He　rested；　leaning　on　the　spear。　His　respiration　was　so　difficult　that　he　thought　the　frozen　sweat　and　vapor　on　his　face　might　be　suffocating　him。　But　when　he　tried　to　break　it；　it　tore　away　like　a　protective　scab；　hurting　his　skin；　exposing　new　nerves　to　the　cold。　He　let　the　rest　of　his　frozen　mask　remain；　and　stood　panting　until　at　last　his　vision　began　to　clear。
　　　　The　hard　barren　region　ahead　of　him　was　so　dreary；　so　wilderlanded　by　Foul's　cruelty；　that　he　could　hardly　bear　to　look　at　it。　It　was　gray　cold　and　dead　from　horizon　to　horizon　under　the　gray　dead　clouds…not　the　soft　fortable　gray　of　twilit　illusions；　of　unstark　colors　blurring　like　consolation　or　placency　into　each　other；　but　rather　the　gray　of　disconsolation　and　dismay；　paradoxically　dull　and　raw；　numb　and　poignant；　a　gray　like　the　ashen　remains　of　color　and　sap　and　blood　and　bone。　Gray　wind　drove　gray　cold　over　the　gray　frozen　hills；　gray　snow　gathered　in　thin　drifts　under　the　lees　of　the　gray　terrain；　gray　ice　underscored　the　black；　brittle；　leafless　branches　of　the　trees　barely　visible　in　the　distance　on　his　left；　and　stifled　the　gray；　miserable　current　of　the　river　almost　out　of　sight　on　his　right；　gray　numbness　clutched　at　his　flesh　and　soul。　Lord　Foul　the　Despiser　was　everywhere。
　　　　Then　for　a　time　he　remembered　his　purpose。　He　set　his　ice…muzzled　teeth　into　the　teeth　of　the　cold　and　hobbled　down　from　the　ridge　straight　toward　the　source　of　the　winter。　Half　blinded　by　the　opposition　of　the　wind；　he　stumped　unheeding　past　slight　shelters　and　straggling　aliantha；　thrust　his　tattered　way　among　the　hills；　dragging　his　frozen　foot　like　an　accusation　he　meant　to　bring　against　the　Despiser。
　　　　But　gradually　the　memory　faded；　lapsed　from　his　consciousness　like　everything　else　except　his　reiterating　interrogation　of　hate。　Some　inchoate　instinct　kept　him　from　wending　downward　toward　the　river；　but　all　other　sense　of　direction　deserted　him。　With　the　wind　angling　against　his　right　cheek；　he　struggled　slowly　upward；　upward；　as　if　it　were　only　in　climbing　that　he　could　keep　himself　erect　at　all。
　　　　As　the　morning　passed；　he　began　to　fall　more　often。　He　could　no　longer　retain　his　grip　on　the　spear；　his　hands　were　too　stiff；　too　weak；　and　a　slick　sheen　of　ice　sweat　made　the　spear　too　slippery。　Amid　the　crunch　of　ice　and　his　own　panting　cries；　he　slipped　repeatedly　to　the　ground。　And　after　several　convulsive　efforts　to　go　on；　he　lay　face　down　on　the　ruined　earth　with　his　breath　r