| Chapter 9: Glimmermere |
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For an instant, the focus of her gaze seemed to swing closer to him, and her vision tensed as if she meant to burn her way through his skull to find out what he was thinking. But then she turned away with a gentle smile, and walked toward another wall of the cavern. "Let me show you another work," she said. "It is by one of our rarest Craftsmasters, Ahanna daughter of Hanna. Here."
He followed, and stopped with her before a large picture in a burnished ebony frame. It was a dark work, but glowing bravely near its center was a figure that he recognized immediately: Lord Mhoram. The Lord stood alone in a hollow tightly surrounded by black fiendish shapes which were about to fall on him like a flood, deluge him utterly. His only weapon was his staff, but he wielded it defiantly; and in his eyes was a hot, potent look of extremity and triumph, as if he had discovered within himself some capacity for peril that made him unconquerable. Elena said respectfully, "Ahanna names this 'Lord Mhoram's Victory.' She is a prophet, I think." The sight of Mhoram in such straits hurt Covenant, and he took it as a reproach. "Listen," he said. "Stop playing around with me like this. If you've got something to say, say it. Or take Troy's advice, and lock me up. But don't do this to me." "Playing around? I do not understand." "Hellfire! Stop looking so innocent. You got me down here to let me have it for that run-in with Trell. Well, get it over with. I can't stand the suspense." The High Lord met his glare with such openness that he turned away, muttering under his breath to steady himself. "Ur-Lord." She placed an appealing hand on his arm. "Thomas Covenant. How can you believe such thoughts? How can you understand us so little? Look at me. Look at me!" She pulled his arm until he turned back to her, faced the sincerity she expressed with every line of her face. "I did not ask you here to torment you. I wished to share my last hour in the Hall of Gifts with you. This war is near--near--and I will not soon stand here again. As for the Warmark--I do not take counsel from him concerning you. If there is any blame in your meeting with Trell, it is mine. I did not give you clear warning of my fears. And I did not see the extent of the danger--else I would have told all the Bloodguard to prevent your meeting. "No, ur-Lord. I have no hard words to speak to you. You should reproach me. I have endangered your life, and cost Trell Atiaran-mate my grandfather his last self-respect. He was helpless to heal his daughter and his wife. Now he will believe that he is helpless to heal himself." Looking at her, Covenant's distrust fell into dust. He took a deep breath to clean stale air from his lungs. But the movement hurt his ribs. The pain made him fear that she would reach toward him, and he mumbled quickly, "Don't touch me." For an instant, she misunderstood him. Her fingers leaped from his arm, and the otherness of her vision flicked across him with a virulence that made him flinch, amazed and baffled. But what she saw corrected her misapprehension. The focus of her gaze left him; she extended her hand slowly to place her palm on his chest. "I hear you, " she said. "But I must touch you. You have been my hope for too long. I cannot give you up." |