The Wounded Land by Stephen R. Donaldson

that I will make use of that power to destroy the Earth, you will place it into my hand, and no hope or chance under all the Arch of Time can prevent you!
    â€œYes, tremble, groveler! There is despair laid up for you here beyond anything your petty mortal heart can bear!”
    The passionate whisper threatened to crush Covenant against the stone. He wailed refusals and curses, but they had no force, could not drive the attar from his throat.
    Then Lord Foul began to chuckle. The corruption of death clogged the air. For a long moment, Covenant retched as if the muscles of his chest were breaking.
    But as he gagged, the jeering drifted away from him. Wind sifted through it, pulling the mist apart. The wind was cold, as if a chill of laughter rode it, echoing soundlessly; but the atmosphere grew bright as the mist frayed and vanished.
    Covenant lay on his back under a brilliant azure sky and a strange sun.
    The sun was well up in the heavens. The central glare of its light was familiar, comforting. But it wore a blue corona like a ring of sapphire; and its radiance deepened the rest of the sky to the texture of sendaline.
    He squinted at it dumbly, too stunned to move or react.
Of your own volition—
The sun’s aurora disturbed him in a way he could not define.
Plans which I planted in my anguish—
Shifting as it had a mind of its own, his right hand slowly probed toward the spot where the knife had struck him.
    His fingers were too numb to tell him anything. But he could feel their pressure on his chest. He could feel their touch when they slipped through the slit in the center of his T-shirt.
    There was no pain.
    He withdrew his hand, took his gaze out of the sky to look at his fingers.
    There was no blood.
    He sat up with a jerk that made his head reel. For a moment, he had to prop himself up with his arms. Blinking against the sun-dazzle, he forced his eyes into focus on his chest.
    His shirt had been cut—a slash the width of his hand just below his sternum. Under it lay the white line of a new scar.
    He gaped at it. How—?
    You are stubborn yet
. Had he healed himself? With wild magic?
    He did not know. He had not been conscious of wielding any power. Could he have done such a thing unconsciously? High Lord Mhoram had once said to him,
You are the white gold
. Did that mean he was capable of using power without knowing it? Without being in control of it? Hellfire!
    Long moments passed before he realized that he was facing a parapet. He was sitting on one side of a round stone slab encircled by a low wall, chest-high on him in this position.
    A jolt of recognition brought him out of his stupor. He knew this place.
    Kevin’s Watch.
    For an instant, he asked himself, Why here? But then a chain of
    connections jumped taut in him, and he whirled, to find Linden stretched unconscious behind him.
    He almost panicked. She lay completely still. Her eyes were open, but she saw nothing. The muscles of her limbs hung slack against the bones. Her hair was tangled across her face.
    Blood seeped in slow drops from behind her left ear.
    You are mine
.
    Suddenly Covenant was sweating in the cool air.
    He gripped her shoulders, shook her, then snatched up her left hand, started to slap her wrist. Her head rolled in protest. A whimper tightened her lips. She began to writhe. He dropped her arm, clamped his hands to the sides of her face to keep her from hurting herself against the stone.
    Abruptly her gaze sprang outward. She drew a harsh gasp of air and screamed. Her cry sounded like destitution under the immense sky and the strange blue-ringed sun.
    â€œLinden!” he shouted. She sucked air to howl again. “Linden!”
    Her eyes lurched into focus on him, flared in horror or rage as if he had threatened her with leprosy.
    Fiercely, she struck him across the cheek.
    He recoiled, more in surprise than in pain.
    â€œYou bastard,” she panted, surging to her knees. “Haven’t you even got the