The Wounded Land by Stephen R. Donaldson Page A

the parapet and gazed up at the mountains. “The necessity of freedom,” he breathed. “As long as we aren’t bound by any Law, or anybody—or any explanation,” he said to ease his conscience, “we’repowerful.” But I’m not free. I’ve already chosen. “That’s what it comes down to. Power. The power that healed me.
    â€œThat old man— Somehow he knows what’s going on in the Land. And he’s no friend of Foul’s. He chose you for something—I don’t know what. Or maybe he wanted to reassure himself. Find out if you’re the kind of person Foul can manipulate.
    â€œAs for Joan, she was Foul’s way of getting at me. She was vulnerable to him. After what happened the last time I was here, I wasn’t. He used her to get me to step into that triangle by my own choice. So he could summon me here.” What I don’t understand, he sighed, is why he had to do it that way. It wasn’t like that before. “Maybe it’s an accident that you’re here, too. But I don’t think so.”
    Linden glanced down at the stone as if to verify that it was substantial, then touched the bruise behind her ear. Frowning, she shifted into a sitting position. Now she did not look at him. “I don’t understand,” she said stiffly. “First you tell me this is a dream—then you say it’s real. First you’re dying back there in the woods—then you’re healed by some kind of—some kind of magic. First Lord Foul is a figment—then he’s real.” In spite of her control, her voice trembled slightly. “Which is it? You can’t have it both ways.” Her fist clenched. “You could be dying.”
    Ah, I have to have it both ways, Covenant murmured. It’s like vertigo. The answer is in the contradiction—in the eye of the paradox. But he did not utter his thought aloud.
    Yet Linden’s question relieved him. Already her restless mind—that need which had rejected his efforts to warn her, had driven her to follow him to his doom—was beginning to grapple with her situation. If she had the strength to challenge him, then her crisis was past, at least for the moment. He found himself smiling in spite of his fear.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Maybe this is real—maybe it isn’t. You can believe whatever you want. I’m just offering you a frame of reference, so you’ll have some place to start.”
    Her hands kept moving, touching herself, the stone, as if she needed tactile sensation to assure her of her own existence. After a moment, she said, “You’ve been here before.” Her anger had turned to pain. “It’s your life. Tell me how to understand.”
    â€œFace it,” he said without hesitation. “Go forward. Find out what happens—what’s at stake. What matters to you.” He knew from experience that there was no other defense against insanity; the Land’s reality and its unreality could not be reconciled. “Give yourself a chance to find out who you are.”
    â€œI know who I am.” Her jaw was stubborn. The lines of her nose seemed precise rather than fragile; her mouth was severe by habit. “I’m a doctor.” But she was facing something she did not know how to grasp. “I don’t even have my bag.” She scrutinized her hands as if she wondered what they were good for. When she met his gaze, her question was a demand as well as an appeal. “What do you believe?”
    â€œI believe”—he made no effort to muffle his hardness—“that we’ve got to find some way to stop Foul. That’s more important than anything. He’s trying to destroy the Land. I’m not going to let him get away with that. That’s who
I
am.”
    She stared at his affirmation. “Why? What does it have to do with you? If this is a dream,