The 1st Chronicles of Thomas Covenant #2: The Illearth War by Stephen R. Donaldson

had eased some of the constriction in his chest, he seated himself at the table and began to eat.
    “That can wait,” Troy said gruffly. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
    “So talk,” Covenant said around a mouthful of stew. In spite of his visitor’s insistent impatience, he kept on eating. He ate rapidly, acting on his decision before doubt could make him regret it.
    Troy paced the room stiffly for a moment, then brought himself to take a seat opposite Covenant. He sat as he stood with unbending uprightness. His gleaming, impenetrable, black sunglasses emphasized the tightness of the muscles in his cheeks and forehead. Carefully, he said, “You’re determined to make this hard, aren’t you? You’re determined to make it hard for everyone.”
    Covenant shrugged. As the springwine unfurled within him, he began to recover from what he had seen in the sacred enclosure. At the same time, he remembered his distrust of Troy. He ate with increasing wariness, watched the Warmark from under his eyebrows.
    “Well, I’m trying to understand,” Troy went on in a constrained tone. “God knows I’ve got a better chance than anyone else here.”
    Covenant put down the wooden fork and looked squarely at Troy.
    “The same thing happened to us both.” To the obvious disbelief in Covenant’s face, he responded, “Oh, it’s all clear enough. A white gold wedding ring.
    Boots, jeans, and a T-shirt. You were talking on the phone with your wife. And the time before that have I got this right? you were hit by a car of some kind.”
    “A police car,” Covenant murmured, staring at the Warmark.
    “You see? I can recognize every detail. And you could do the same for my story.
    We both came here from the same place, the same world, Covenant. The real world.”
    No, Covenant breathed thickly. None of this is happening.
    “I’ve even heard of you,” Troy went on as if this argument would be incontrovertible. “I’ve read-your book was read to me. It made an impression on me.”
    Covenant snorted. But he was disturbed. He had burned that book too late; it continued to haunt him.
    “No, hold on. Your damn book was a best-seller.
    Hundreds of thousands of people read it. It was made ‘ into a movie. Just because I know about it doesn’t mean I’m a figment of your imagination. In fact, my presence here is proof that you are not going crazy.: Two independent minds perceiving the same phenomenon.”
    He said this with confident plausibility, but Covenant was not swayed. “Proof?”
    he muttered. “I would be amused to hear what else you call proof.”
    “Do you want to hear how I came here?”
    “No!” Covenant was suddenly vehement. “I want to hear why you don’t want to go back.”
    For a moment, Troy sat still, facing Covenant with his sunglasses. Then he snapped to his feet, and started to pace again. Swinging tightly around on his heel at one end of the room, he said, “Two reasons. First, I like it here. I’m useful to something worth being useful to. The issues at stake in this war are the only ones I’ve ever seen worth fighting for. The life of the Land is beautiful. It deserves preservation. For once, I can do some good. Instead of spending my time on troop deployment, first- and second-strike capabilities, superready status, demoralization parameters, nuclear induction of lethal genetic events,” he recited bitterly, “I can help defend against a genuine evil. The world we came from-the ‘real’ world hasn’t got such clear colors, no blue and black and green and red, ‘ebon ichor incarnadine viridian.’ Gray is the color of ‘reality.’
    “Actually” — he dropped back into his chair, and his voice took on a more conversational tone — “I didn’t even know what gray was until I came here. That’s my second reason.”
    He reached up with both hands and removed his sunglasses.
    “I’m blind.”
    His sockets were empty, orbless, lacking even lids and lashes. Blank skin grew in the holes