Eleven: The Unhomed


GRADUALLY, night stumbled as if stunned and wandering aimlessly into an overcast day-limped through the wilderland of transition as though there were no knowing where the waste of darkness ended and the ashes of light began. The low clouds seemed full of grief-tense and uneasy with accumulated woe -and yet affectless, unable to rain, as if the air clenched itself too hard for tears. And through the dawn, Atiaran and Covenant moved heavily, unevenly, like pieces of a broken lament.
The coming of one day made no difference to them, did not alter the way they fled-terrorless because their capacity for fear was exhausted-into the north. Day and night were nothing but disguises, motley raiment, for the constant shadow on the Land's heart. To that heart they could not guess how much damage had been done. They could only judge by their own hurt-and so throughout the long, dismal night and day which followed the defilement of the Celebration, they walked on haunted by what they had witnessed and numb to everything else, as though even hunger and thirst and fatigue were extinguished in them.
That night, their flesh reached the end of its endurance, and they pitched blindly into sleep, no longer able to care what pursuit was on their trail. While they slept, the sky found some release for its tension. Blue lightning flailed the Hills; thunder groaned in long suppressed pain. When the travelers awoke, the sun stood over them, and their clothes were drenched with the night's rain. But sunshine and morning could not unscar their wounded memories. They clambered like corpses to their feet-ate aliantha, drank from a stream-set off again walking as if they were stiff with death.
Yet time and aliantha and Andelainian air slowly worked their resuscitations. Slowly, Covenant's weary thoughts shifted; the trudging horror of slaughter receded, allowed a more familiar pain to ache in him. He could hear Atiaran crying, Covenant, help them! and the sound made his blood ran cold with impotence.
The Wraiths, the Wraiths! he moaned dimly, distantly, to himself. They had been so beautiful-and he had been so unable to save them.
Yet Atiaran had believed him capable of saving them; she had expected some putting forth of power - Like Lena and Baradakas and everyone else he met, she saw him as Berek Halfhand reborn, the master of wild magic. You have might, the Despiser had said. You will never know what it is. He did not know; how could he? What did magic, or even dreams, have to do with him?
And yet the Wraiths had paid homage to his ring as if they recognized his lost humanity. They had been changed by it.
After a time, he said without meaning to speak aloud, "I would have saved them if I could."
"You have the power." Atiaran's voice was dull, inert, as if she were no longer capable of grief or anger.
"What power?" he asked painfully.
"Do you wear the white gold for nothing?"
"It's just a ring. I wear it-I wear it because I'm a leper. I don't know anything about power."
She did not look at him. "I cannot see. You are closed to me."
At that, he wanted to protest, cry out, grab her by
the shoulders and shout into her face, Closed? Look -look at me! I'm no Berek! No hero. I'm too sick for that. But he lacked the strength. And he had been too badly hurt-hurt as much by Atiaran's impossible demand as by his powerlessness.
How-?
The Wraiths!
How can this happen to me?
A moment passed while he groaned over the question. Then he sighed to himself, I should have known - He should have heard his danger in Atiaran's singing of the Berek legend, seen it in Andelain, felt it in the revulsion in his boots. But he had been deaf, blind, numb. He had been so busy moving ahead, putting madness behind him, that he had ignored the madness toward which the path of his dream tended. This dream wanted him to be a hero, a savior; therefore it seduced him, swept him along-urging him forward so that he would run heedless of himself to risk his life for the sake of Wraiths, the Land, illusion. The only difference in this between Atiaran and Lord Foul was that the Despiser wanted him to fail.
You will never know what it is. Of course he would never know. A visceral anger writhed under his fatigue. He was dreaming-that was the answer to everything, to the Land's impossible expectations of him as well as to the Land's impossibility. He knew the difference between reality and dream; he was sane.
He was a leper.
And yet the Wraiths had been so beautiful. They had been slaughtered
I'm a leper!
Trembling, he began to give himself a VSE. Hellfire! What do Wraiths and wild magic and Berek bloody Halfhand have to do with me? His body appeared whole-he could see no injuries, his clothing was rumpled but unrent-but the end of the Hirebrand's staff had been blackened by the power of the ur-viles. By hell! They can't do this to me.
Fuming against his weariness, he shambled along at Atiaran's side. She did not look at him, did not seem to recognize his presence at all; and during that day he left her alone as if he feared how he would respond if he gave her an opportunity to accuse him. But when they halted that evening, the cold night and the brittle stars made him regret the loss of their blankets and graveling. To distract himself from his hollow discomfort, he resumed his half-forgotten efforts to learn about the Land. Stiffly, he said, "Tell me about that -whoever saved us. Back there."
A long silence passed before she said, "Tomorrow." Her voice was lightless, unillumined by anything expect torpor or defeat. "Let me be. Until tomorrow."
Covenant nodded in the darkness. It felt thick with cold and beating wings, but he could answer it better than he could reply to Atiaran's tone. For a long time he shivered as if he were prepared to resent every dream that afflicted a miserable mankind, and at last he fell into fitful slumber.
The next day, the ninth from Soaring Woodhelven, Atiaran told Covenant about the Unfettered One in a voice as flat as crushed rock, as if she had reached the point where what she said, how she exposed herself, no longer mattered to her. "There are those from the Loresraat," she said, "who find that they cannot work for the Land or the Lore of the Old Lords in the company of their fellows-Lords or Lorewardens, the followers of Sword or Staff. Those have some private vision which compels them to seek it in isolation. But their need for aloneness does not divide them from the people. They are given the Rites of Unfettering, and freed from all common demands, to quest after their own lore with the blessing of the Lords and the respect of all who love the Land. For the Lords learned long ago that the desire for aloneness need not be a selfish desire, if it is not made so by those who do not feel it.
"Many of the Unfettered have never returned into knowledge. But stories have grown up around those Ones who have not vanished utterly. Some are said to know the secrets of dreams, others to practice deep mysteries in the arts of healing, still others to be the friends of the animals, speaking their language and calling on their help in times of great need.
"Such a One saved us"-her voice thickened momentarily-"a learner of the Wraiths and a friend to the small beasts of the woods. He knew more of the Seven Words than my ears have ever heard." She groaned softly. "A mighty man, to have been so slain. He released the Wraiths, and saved our lives. Would that I were worth so much. By the Seven! No evil has ever before been aimed at the Wraiths of Andelain. The Gray Slayer himself never dared- And it is said that the Ritual of Desecration itself had no power to touch them. Now it is in my heart that they will not dance again."
After a heavy pause, she went on: "No matter. All things end, in perversion and death. Sorrow belongs to those who also hope. But that Unfettered One gave his life so that you and your message and your ring might reach the Lords. This we will accomplish, so that such sacrifices may have meaning."
She fell silent again for a moment, and Covenant asked himself, Is that why? Is that what living is for? To vindicate the deaths of others? But he said nothing, and shortly Atiaran's thoughts limped back to her subject. "But the Unfettered. Some are dreamers, some healers, some share the life of the animals. Some delve the earth to uncover the secrets of the Cavewights, others learn the lore of the Demondim whatever knowledge guides the One's private prophecy. I have even heard it whispered that some Unfettered follow the legend of Caerroil Wildwood of Garroting Deep, and become Forestals. But that is a perilous thought, even when whispered.
"Never before have I seen one of the Unfettered. But I have heard the Rites of Unfettering. A hymn is sung." Dully, she recited:

Free
Unfettered
Shriven
Free-
Dream that what is dreamed will be:
Hold eyes clasped shut until they see,
And sing the silent prophecy
And be
Unfettered
Shriven
Free.

There is more, but my weakness will not recall- It may be that I will not sing any song again." She pulled her robe tight around her shoulders as if a wind were chilling through her, and said nothing more for the rest of the day.
That night, when they had camped, Covenant again could not sleep. Unwillingly he lay awake and watched for the sliver of the new moon. When it finally rose over the Hills, he was appalled to see that it was no longer silver-white, but red-the color of blood and Drool's laval eyes.
It hued the Hills with wrongness, gave the night a tinge of crimson like blood sweat sheening the shrubs and trees and grass and slopes, as if the whole of Andelain were in torment. Under it, the violated ground shimmered as if it were shuddering.
Covenant stared at it, could not close his eyes. Though he badly wanted company, he clamped his teeth together, refused to awaken Atiaran. Alone and shivering, with the staff of Baradakas clutched in his sweating hands, he sat up until moonset, then slept on the edge of consternation until dawn.
And on the fourth day after the night of the Dance, it was he who set the pace of their traveling. He pushed their speed more and more as the day passed, as though he feared that the bloody moon were gaining on them.
When they halted for the night, he gave Atiaran his staff and made her sit awake to see the moon. It came over the horizon in a crimson haze, rising like a sickle of blood in the heavens. Its crescent was noticeably fuller than it had been the previous night. She stared at it rigidly, clenched the staff, but did not cry out. When she had tasted all its wrong, she said tonelessly, "There is no time," and turned her face away.
But when morning came, she once more took charge of their pace. Under the pall of the despoiled moon she seemed to- have reached a resolution, and now she drove herself forward as if she were spurred by some self curse or flagellation which rejected through naked determination the logic of defeat. She seemed to believe that she had lost everything for herself and for the Land, yet the way she walked showed that pain could be as sharp a goad as any. Again Covenant found himself hurrying as hard as he could to keep up with her fierce back.
He accepted her pace in the name of his complex dread; he did not want to be caught by the forces that could attack Wraiths and render moons incarnadine. But he was scrupulous about his VSE and other self protections. If he could have found a blade other than his penknife, he would have shaved with it.
They spent that day, part of the night, and the morning of the next day stumbling forward on the verge of a run. Covenant sustained their rate as best he could, but long days and restless nights had drained his stamina, made his stride ragged and his muscles irresilient. He came to lean more and more on his staff, unable to keep his balance without it. And even with it he might have fallen if he had been pursuing such a pace in some other region. But the keen essence of Andelain supported him. Healthy air salved his lungs, thick grass cushioned his sore joints, Gilden shaded him, treasure-berries burst with energy in his mouth. And at last, near noon on the sixth day, he and Atiaran staggered over the crest of a hill and saw at the bottom of the slope beyond them the Soulsease River.
Blue under the azure sky, it meandered broad, quiet and slow almost directly eastward across their path like a demarcation or boundary of achievement. As it turned and ran among the Hills, it had a glitter of youth, a sparkle of contained exuberance which could burst into laughter the moment it was tickled by any shoals. And its water was as clean, clear and fresh as an offer of baptism. At the sight of it, Covenant felt a rushing desire to plunge in, as if the stream had the power to wash away his mortality.
But he was distracted from it almost immediately.
Some distance away to the west, and moving upstream in the center of the river, was a boat like a skiff with a tall figure in the stern. The instant she saw it, Atiaran cried out sharply, waved her arms, then began pelting down the slope, calling with a frantic edge to her voice, "Hail! Help! Come back! Come back!"
Covenant followed less urgently. His gaze was fixed on the boat.
With a swing of its prow, it turned in their direction.
Atiaran threw her arms into the air again, gave one more call, then dropped to the ground. When Covenant reached her, she was sitting with her knees clasped to her chest, and her lips trembled as if her face were about to break. She stared feverishly at the approaching boat.
As it drew nearer, Covenant began to see with growing surprise just how tall the steering figure was. Before the boat was within a hundred feet of them, he was sure that the steersman was twice his own height. And he could see no means of propulsion. The craft appeared to be nothing more than an enormous rowboat, but there were no oarlocks, no oars, no poles. He gaped widely at the boat as it glided closer.
When it was within thirty feet of them, Atiaran thrust herself to her feet and called out, "Hail, Rockbrother! The Giants of Seareach are another name for friendship! Help us!" The boat kept gliding toward the bank, but its steersman did not speak; and shortly Atiaran added in a whisper that only Covenant could hear, "I beg you."
The Giant kept his silence as he approached. For the last distance, he swung the tiller over so that the boat's prow aimed squarely at the riverbank. Then, just before the craft struck, he drove his weight down in the stern. The prow lifted out of the water and grounded itself securely a few yards from Atiaran and Covenant. In a moment, the Giant stood before them on the grass, offering them the salute of welcome.
Covenant shook his head in wonder. He felt that it was impossible for anyone to be so big; the Giant was at least twelve feet tall. But the rocky concreteness of the Giant's presence contradicted him. The Giant struck his perceptions as tangibly as stumbling on rough stone.
Even for a being twelve feet tall, he appeared gnarled with muscles, like an oak come to life. He was dressed in a heavy leather jerkin and leggings, and carried no weapons. A short beard, as stiff as iron, jutted from his face. And his eyes were small, deep-set and enthusiastic. From under his brows, massed over his sockets like the wall of a fortress, his glances flashed piercingly, like gleams from his cavernous thoughts. Yet, in spite of his imposing appearance, he gave an impression of incongruous geniality, of inunense good humor.
"Hail, Rocksister," he said in a soft, bubbling tenor voice which sounded too light and gentle to come from his bemuscled throat. "What is your need? My help is willing, but I am a legate, and my embassy brooks little delay."
Covenant expected Atiaran to blurt out her plea; the hesitation with which she met the Giant's offer disturbed him. For a long moment, she gnawed her lips as if she were chewing over her rebellious flesh, searching for an utterance which would give direction, one way or another, to a choice she hated. Then, with her eyes downcast as if in shame, she murmured uncertainly, "Where do you go?"
At her question, the Giant's eyes flashed, and his voice bubbled like a spring of water from a rock as he said, "My destination? Who is wise enough to know his own goal? But I am bound for- No, that name is too long a story for such a time as this. I go to Lord's Keep, as you humans call it."
Still hesitating, Atiaran asked, "What is your name?"
"That is another long story," the Giant returned, and repeated, "What is your need?"
But Atiaran insisted dully, "Your name."
Again a gleam sprang from under the Giant's massive brows. "There is power in names. I do not wish to be invoked by any but friends."
"Your name!" Atiaran groaned.
For an instant, the Giant paused, indecisive.. Then he said, "Very well. Though my embassy is not a light one, I will answer for the sake of the loyalty between my people and yours. To speak shortly, I am called Saltheart Foamfollower."
Abruptly, some resistance, some hatred of her decision, crumbled in Atiaran as if it had been defeated at last by the Giant's trust. She raised her head, showing Covenant and Foamfollower the crushed landscape behind her eyes. With grave deliberation, she gave the salute of welcome. "Let it be so. Saltheart Foamfollower, Rockbrother and Giants' legate, I charge you by the power of your name, and by the great Keep of faith which was made between Damelon Giantfriend and your people, to take this man, Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and stranger to the Land, in safety to the Council of Lords. He bears messages to the Council from Kevin's Watch. Ward him well, Rockbrother. I can go no farther."
What? Covenant gaped. In his surprise, he almost protested aloud, And give up your revenge? But he held himself still with his thoughts reeling, and waited for her to take a stance he could comprehend.
"Ah, you are too quick to call on such bold names," the Giant said softly. "I would have accepted your charge without them. But I urge you to join us. There are rare healings at Lord's Keep. Will you not come? Those who await you would not begrudge such a sojourn-not if they could see you as I do now."
Bitterness twisted Atiaran's lips. "Have you seen the new moon? That comes of the last healing I looked for." As she went on, her voice grew gray with self-despite. "It is a futile charge I give you. I have already caused it to fail. There has been murder in all my choices since I became this man's guide, such murder-" She choked on the bile of what she had seen, and had to swallow violently before she could continue. "Because my path took us too close to Mount Thunder. You passed around that place. You must have seen the evil working there."
Distantly, the Giant said, "I saw."
"We went into the knowledge of that wrong, rather than make our way across the Center Plains. And
now it is too late for anyone. He- The Gray Slayer has returned. I chose that path because I desired healing for myself. What will happen to the Lords if I ask them to help me now?"
And give up your revenge? Covenant wondered. He could not comprehend. He turned completely to. ward her and studied her face, trying to see her health, her spirit.
She looked as if she were in the grip of a ravaging illness. Her mien had thinned and sharpened; her spacious eyes were shadowed, veiled in darkness; her lips were drained of blood. And vertically down the center of her forehead lay a deep line like a rift in her skull-the tool work of unblinkable despair. Etched there was the vastness of the personal hurt which she contained by sheer force of will, and the damage she did herself by containing it.
At last Covenant saw clearly the moral struggle that wasted her, the triple conflict between her abhorrence of him, her fear for the Land, and her dismay at her own weakness-a struggle whose expense exhausted her resources, reduced her to penury. The sight shamed his heart, made him drop his gaze. Without thinking, he reached toward her and said - in a voice full of self-contradicting pleas, "Don't give up."
"Give up?" she  gasped in virulence, backing away from him. "If I gave up, I would stab you where you stand!" Suddenly, she thrust a hand into her robe and snatched out a stone knife like the one Covenant had lost. Brandishing it, she spat, "Since the Celebration since you permitted Wraiths to die-this blade has cried out for your blood: Other crimes I could set aside. I speak for my own. But that-1 To countenance such desecration-!"
She hurled the knife savagely to the ground, so that it stuck hilt-deep in the turf by Covenant's feet. "Behold!" she cried, and in that instant her voice became abruptly gelid, calm. "I wound the Earth instead of you. It is fitting. I have done little else since you entered the Land.
"Now hear my last word, Unbeliever. I let you go because these decisions surpass me. Delivering children in the Stonedown does not fit me for such choices. But I will not intrude my desires on the one hope of the Land barren as that hope is. Remember that I have withheld my hand-I have kept my Oath."
"Have you?" he asked, moved by a complex impulse of sympathy and nameless ire.
She pointed a trembling finger at her knife. "I have not harmed you. I have brought you here."
"You've hurt yourself."
"That is my Oath," she breathed stiffly. "Now, farewell. When you have returned in safety to your own world, remember what evil is."
He wanted to protest, argue, but her emotion mastered him, and he held himself silent before the force of her resolve. Under the duress of her eyes, he bent, and drew her knife out of the grass. It came up easily. He half expected to see blood ooze from the slash it had made in the turf, but the thick grass closed over the cut, hiding it as completely as an absolution. Unconsciously, he tested the blade with his thumb, felt its acuteness.
When he looked up again, he saw that Atiaran was climbing up the hill and away, moving with the unequal stride of a cripple.
This isn't right! he shouted at her back. Have mercy! -pity! But his tongue felt too thick with the pain of her renunciation; he could not speak. At least forgive yourself. The tightness of his face gave him a nasty impression that he was grinning. Atiaran! he groaned. Why are we so unable?
Into his aching, the Giant's voice came gently. "Shall we go?"
Dumbly, Covenant nodded. He tore his eyes from Atiaran's toiling back, and shoved her knife under his belt.
Saltheart Foamfollower motioned for him to climb into the boat. When Covenant had vaulted over the gunwale and taken a seat on a thwart in the prow the only seat in the thirty-foot craft small enough for him-the Giant stepped aboard, pushing off from the bank at the same time. Then he went to the broad, shallow stern. Standing there, he grasped the tiller. A surge of power flowed through the keel. He swung his craft away from the riverbank into midstream, and shortly it was moving westward among the Hills.
As soon as he had -taken his seat, Covenant had turned with failure in his throat to watch Atiaran's progress up the hillside. But the surge of power which moved the boat gave it a brisk pace as fast as running, and in moments distance had reduced her to a brown mite in the lush, oblivious green of Andelain. With a harsh effort, he forced his eyes to let her go, compelled himself to look instead for the source of the boat's power.
But he could locate no power source. The boat ran smoothly up against the current as if it were being towed by fish. It had no propulsion that he could discern. Yet his nerves were sensitive to the energy flowing through the keel. Dimly, he asked, "What makes this thing move? I don't see any engine."
Foamfollower stood in the stern, facing upstream, with the high tiller under his left arm and his right held up to the river breezes; and he was chanting something, some plainsong ,in a language Covenant could not understand-a song with a wave-breaking, salty timbre like the taste of the sea. For a moment after Covenant's question, he kept up his rolling chant. But soon its language changed, and Covenant heard him sing:

Stone and Sea are deep in life,
two unalterable symbols of the world:
permanence at rest, and permanence in motion;
participants in the Power that remains.

Then Foamfollower stopped, and looked down at Covenant with humor sparkling under his unbreachable brows. "A stranger to the Land," he said. "Did that woman teach you nothing?"
Covenant stiffened in his seat. The Giant's tone seemed to demean Atiaran, denigrate the cost she had borne; his bland, impregnable forehead and humorous glance appeared impervious to sympathy. But her pain was vivid to Covenant. She had been dispossessed of so much normal human love and warmth. In a voice rigid with anger, he retorted, "She is Atiaran Trell-mate, of Mithil Stonedown, and she did better than teach me. She brought me safely past Ravers, murdered Waynhim, a bloody moon, ur-viles, Could you have done it?"
Foamfollower did not reply, but a grin spread gaily over his face, raising the end of his beard like a mock salute.
"By hell!" Covenant flared. "Do you think I'm lying? I wouldn't condescend to lie to you."
At that, the Giant's humor burst into high, head back, bubbling laughter.
Covenant watched, stifling with rage, while Foamfollower laughed. Briefly, he bore the affront. Then he jumped from his seat and raised his staff to strike the Giant.
Foamfollower stopped him with a placating gesture. "Softly, Unbeliever," he said. "Will you feel taller if I sit down?"
"Hell and blood!" Covenant howled. Swinging his arms savagely, he struck the floorboards with the ur-vile--blackened end of his staff.
The boat pitched as if his blow had sent the river into convulsions. Staggering, he clutched a thwart to save himself from being thrown overboard. In a moment, the spasm passed, leaving the sun-glittered stream as calm as before. But he remained gripping the thwart for several long heartbeats, while his nerves jangled and his ring throbbed heavily.
Covenant, he snarled to steady himself, you would be ridiculous if you weren't so-ridiculous. He drew himself erect, and stood with his feet braced until he had a stranglehold on his emotions. Then he bent his gaze toward Foamfollower, probed the Giant's aura. But he could perceive no ill; Foamfollower seemed as hale as native granite. Ridiculous! Covenant repeated. "She deserves respect."
"Ah, forgive me," said the Giant. With a twist, he lowered the tiller so that he could hold it under his arm in a sitting position. "I meant no disrespect. Your loyalty relieves me. And I know how to value what
she has achieved." He seated himself in the stern and leaned back against the tiller so that his eyes were only a foot above Covenant's. "Yes, and how to grieve for her as well. There are none in the Land, not men or Giants or Ranyhyn, who would bear you to-to Lord's Keep faster than I will."
Then his smile returned. "But you, Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and stranger in the Land-you burn yourself too freely. I laughed when I saw you because you seemed like a rooster threatening one of the Ranyhyn. You waste yourself, Thomas Covenant."
Covenant took a double grip on his anger, and said quietly, "Is that a fact? You judge too quickly, Giant."
Another fountain of laughter bubbled out of Foamfollower's chest. "Bravely said! Here is a new thing in the Land-a man accusing a Giant of haste. Well, you are right. But did you not know that men consider us a"-he laughed again-"a deliberate people? I was chosen as legate because short human names, which bereave their bearers of so much history and power and meaning, are easier for me than for most of my people. But now it appears that they are too easy." Once more he threw back his head and let out a stream of deep gaiety.
Covenant glared at the Giant as if all this humor were incomprehensible to him. Then with an effort he pulled himself away, dropped his staff into the bottom of the boat, and sat down on the thwart facing forward, into the west and the afternoon sun. Foamfollower's laughter had a contagious sound, a coloration of uncomplicated joy, but he resisted it. He could not afford to be the victim of any more seductions. Already he had lost more of himself than he could hope to regain.
Nerves don't regenerate. He tolled the words as if they were a private litany, icons of his embattled self. Giants don't exist. I know the difference.
Keep moving, survive.
He chewed his lips as if that pain could help him keep his balance, keep his rage under command.
At his back, Saltheart Foamfollower softly began to chant again. His song rolled through its channel like a long inlet to the sea, rising and falling like a condensation of the tides, and the winds of distance blew through the archaic words. At intervals, they returned to their refrain Stone and Sea are deep in life then voyaged away again. The sound of long sojourning reminded Covenant of his fatigue, and he slumped in the prow to rest.
Foamfollower's question caught him wandering. "Are you a storyteller, Thomas Covenant?"
Absently, he replied, "I was, once."
"And you gave it up? Ah, that is as sad a tale in three words as any you might have told me. But a life without a tale is like a sea without salt. How do you live?"
Covenant folded his arms across the gunwales and rested his chin on them. As the boat moved, Andelain opened constantly in front of him like a bud; but he ignored it, concentrated instead on the plaint of water past the prow. Unconsciously, he clenched his fist over his ring. "I live."
"Another?" Foamfollower returned. "In two words, a story sadder than the first. Say no more-with one word you will make me weep."
If the Giant intended any umbrage, Covenant could not hear it. Foamfollower sounded half teasing, half sympathetic. Covenant shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent.
In a moment, the Giant went on: "Well, this is a bad pass for me. Our journeying. will not be easy, and I had hoped that you could lighten the leagues with a story. But no matter. I judge that you will tell no happy tales in any case. Ravers. Waynhim and Andelainian Wraiths slain. Well, some of this does not surprise me-our old ones have often guessed that Soulcrusher would not die as easily as poor Kevin hoped. Stone and Seat All that Desecration-ravage and rapine-for a false hope. But we have a saying, and it comforts our children-few as they are-when
they weep for the nation, the homes, and company of our people, which we lost-we say, Joy is in the ears that hear, not in the mouth that speaks. The world has few stories glad in themselves, and we must have gay ears to defy Despite. Praise the Creator! Old Lord Damelon Giantfriend knew the value of a good laugh. When we reached the Land, we were too grieved to fight for the right to live."
A good laugh, Covenant sighed morosely. Did I do a whole life's laughing in that little time?
 "You humans are an impatient lot, Thomas Covenant. Do you think that I ramble? Not a bit -I have come hastening to the point. Since you have given up the telling of stories, and since it appears that neither of us is happy enough to withstand the recital of your adventures-why, I must do the telling myself. There is strength in stories-heart rebirth and thew binding-and even Giants need strength when they
face such tasks as mine." He paused, and Covenant, not wishing him to stop -the Giant's voice seemed to weave the rush of water past the boat into a soothing tapestry-said into the silence, "Tell."
"Ali," Foamfollower responded, "that was not so bad. You recover despite yourself, Thomas Covenant. Now, then. Gladden your ears, and listen gaily, for I am no purveyor of sorrows-though in times of action we do not wince from facts. If you asked me to resail your path here, I would require every detail of your journey before I took three steps into the Hills. Resailing is perilous, and too often return is impossible the path is lost, or the traveler changed, beyond hope of recovery.
"But you must understand, Unbeliever, that selecting a tale is usually a matter for deliberation. The old Giantish is a wealth of stories, and some take days in the telling. Once, as a child, I heard three times in succession the tale of Bahgoon the Unbearable and Thelma Twofist, who tamed him-now that was a story worth the laughter-but nine days were gone before I knew it. However, you do not speak Giantish, and translation is a long task, even for Giants, so the problem of selection is simplified. But the lore of our life in Seareach since our ships found the Land contains many times many stories-tales of the reigns of Damelon Giantfriend and Loric Vilesilencer and Kevin, who is now called Landwaster-tales of the building, the carving out of the mountain, of Revelstone, revered rock, `a handmark of allegiance and fealty in the eternal stone of time,' as Kevin once sang it, the mightiest making that the Giants have done in the Land, a temple for our people to look upon and remember what can be achieved-tales of the voyage which saved us from the Desecration, and of the many healings of the new Lords. But again selection is made easy because you are a stranger. I will tell you the first story of the Seareach Giants the Song of the Unhomed."
Covenant looked about him at the shining blue tranquility of the Soulsease, and settled himself to hear Foamfollower's story. But the narration did not begin right away. Instead of starting his tale, the Giant went back to his antique plainsong, spinning the melody meditatively so that it unrolled like the sea path of the river. For a long time, he sang, and under the spell of his voice Covenant began to drowse. He had too much exhaustion dripping through his bones to keep his attention ready. While he waited, he rested against the prow like a tired swimmer.
But then a modulation sharpened the Giant's chant. The melody took on keener edges, and turned itself to the angle of a lament. Soon Foamfollower was singing words that Covenant could understand.
We are the Unhomed-

   lost voyagers of the world.
In the land beyond the Sunbirth Sea
   we lived and had our homes and grew-
   and set our sails to the wind,
   unheeding of the peril of the lost.
We are the Unhomed.
From home and hearth,
stone sacred dwellings crafted by our reverent hands,
   we set our sails to the wind of the stars,
   and carried life to lands across the earth,
   careless of the peril of our loss.
We are the Unhomed-
   lost voyagers of the world.
From desert shore to high cliff crag,
   home of men and sylvan sea-edge faery
   lands-
   from dream to dream we set our sails,
   and smiled at the rainbow of our loss.
Now we are Unhomed,
   bereft of root and kith and kin.
From other mysteries of delight,
   we set our sails to resail our track;
   but the winds of life blew not the way we chose,
   and the land beyond the Sea was lost.

"Ah, Stone and Sea! Do you know the old lore legend of the Wounded Rainbow, Thomas Covenant? It is said that in the dimmest past of the Earth, there were no stars in our sky. The heavens were a blankness which separated us from the eternal universe of the Creator. There he lived with his people and his myriad bright children, and they moved to the music of play and joy.
"Now, as the ages spired from forever to forever, the Creator was moved to make a new thing for the happy hearts of his children. He descended to the great forges and cauldrons of his power, and brewed and hammered and cast rare theurgies. And when he was done, he turned to the heavens, and threw his mystic creation to the sky-and, behold! A rainbow spread its arms across the universe.
"For a moment, the Creator was glad. But then he looked closely at the rainbow-and there, high in the shimmering span, he saw a wound, a breach in the beauty he had made. He did not know that his Enemy,
the demon spirit of murk and mire that crawled through the bowels of even his universe, had seen him at work, and had cast spite into the mortar of his creating. So now, as the rainbow stood across the heavens, it was marred.
"In vexation, the Creator returned to his works, to find a cure for his creation. But while he labored, his children, his myriad bright children, found the rainbow, and were filled with rejoicing at its beauty. Together, they climbed into the heavens and scampered happily up the bow, dancing gay dances across its colors. High on the span, they discovered the wound. But they did not understand it. Chorusing joy, they danced through the wound, and found themselves in our sky. This new unlighted world only gladdened them the more, and they spun through the sky until it sparkled with the glee of play.
"When they tired of this sport, they sought to return to their universe of light. But their door was shut. For the Creator had discovered his Enemy's handiwork--the cause of the wound-and in his anger his mind had been clouded. Thoughtless, he had torn the rainbow from the heavens. Not until his anger was done did he realize that he had trapped his children in our sky. And there they remain, stars to guide the sojourners of our nights, until the Creator can rid his universe of his Enemy, and find a way to bring his children Home.
"So it was with us, the Unhomed. In our long-lost rocky land, we lived and flourished among our own kind, and when we learned to travel the seas we only prospered the more. But in the eagerness of our glee and our health and our wandering, we betrayed ourselves into folly. We built twenty fine ships, each large enough to be a castle for you humans, and we made a vow among ourselves to set sail and discover the whole Earth. Ah, the whole Earth! In twenty ships, two thousand Giants said high farewells to their kindred, promising to bring back in stories every face of the multitudinous world-and they launched themselves into their dream.
"Then from sea to sea, through. tempest and calm, drought and famine and plenty, between reef and landfall, the Giants sailed, glorying in the bite of the salt air, and the stretch of sailors' thews, and the perpetual contest with the ocean, `permanence in motion'-and in the exaltation of binding together new peoples in the web of their wandering.
"Three ships they lost in half a generation. One hundred Giants chose to remain and live out their lot with the sylvan faery Elohim. Two hundred died in the war service of the Bhrathair, who were nearly destroyed by the Sand gorgons of the great Desert. Two ships were reefed and wrecked. And when the first children born on the voyage were old enough to be sailors themselves, the fifteen vessels held council, and turned their thoughts toward Home-for they had learned the folly of their vow, and were worn from wrestling with the seas.
"So they set their sails by the stars, and sought for Home. But they were prevented. Familiar paths led them to unknown oceans and unencountered perils. Tempests drove them beyond their reckoning until their hands were stripped to the bone by the flailing ropes, and the waves rose up against them as if in hatred. Five more ships were lost-though the wreckage of one was found, and the sailors of another were rescued from the island on which they had been cast. Through ice that held them in its clutch for many seasons, killing scores of them-through calms that made them close comrades of starvation-they endured, struggling for their lives and Home. But disasters erased every vestige of knowledge from their bearings, until they knew not where they were or where to go. When they reached the Land, they cast their anchors. Less than a thousand Giants stepped down to the rocky shore of Seareach. In disconsolation, they gave up their hope of Home.
"But the friendship of High Lord Damelon Heartthew-son renewed them. He saw omens of promise in his mighty Lore, and at his word the Giants lifted up their hearts. They made Seareach their place, and swore fealty to the Lords-and sent three vessels out in quest of Home. Since that time-for more than three times a thousand years-there have always been three Giant ships at sea, seeking our land turn by turn, three new standing out when the old return, their hands empty of success. Still we are Unhomed, lost in the labyrinth of a foolish dream.
"Stone and Sea! We are a long-lived people, compared to your humans -I was born on shipboard during the short voyage which saved us from the Desecration, and my great-grandparents were among the first wanderers. And we have so few children. Rarely does any woman bear more than one child. So now there are only five hundred of us, and our vitality narrows with each generation.
"We cannot forget."
"But in the old lore-legend, the children of the Creator had hope. He put rainbows in our sky after cleansing rains, as a promise to the stars that somehow, someday, he would find a way to bring them home.
"If we are to survive, we must find the Home that we have lost, the heartland beyond the Sunbirth Sea."
During Foamfollower's tale the sun had declined into late afternoon; and as he finished, sunset began on the horizon. Then the Soulsease ran out of the west with fiery, orange-gold glory reflected flame for flame in its burnished countenance. In the fathomless heavens the fire radiated both loss and prophecy, coming night and promised day, darkness which would pass; for when the true end of day and light came, there would be no blazonry to make it admirable, no spectacle or fine fire or joy, nothing for the heart to behold but decay and gray ashes.
In splendor, Foamfollower lifted up his voice again, and sang with a plummeting ache:
We set our sails to resail our track;
but the winds of life blew not the way we chose,
and the land beyond the Sea was lost.
Covenant pushed himself around to look at the Giant. Foamfollower's head was held high, with wet streaks of gleaming gold-orange fire drawn delicately down his cheeks. As Covenant watched, the reflected light took on a reddish shade and began to fade.
Softly, the Giant said, "Laugh, Thomas Covenant laugh for me. Joy is in the ears that hear."
Covenant heard the subdued, undemanding throb and supplication in Foamfollower's voice, and his own choked pain groaned in answer. But he could not laugh; he had no laughter of any kind in him. With a spasm of disgust for the limitations that crippled him, he made a rough effort in another direction. "I'm hungry."
For an instant, Foamfollower's shadowed eyes flared as if he had been stung. But then he put back his head and laughed for himself. His humor seemed to spring straight from his heart, and soon it had banished all tension and tears from his visage.
When he had relaxed into quiet chuckling, he said, "Thomas Covenant, I do not like to be hasty-but I believe you are my friend. You have toppled my pride, and that would be fair service even had I not laughed at you earlier.
"Hungry? Of course you are hungry. Bravely said. I should have offered you food earlier-you have the transparent look of a man who has eaten only aliantha for days. Some old seers say that privation refines the soul-but I say it is soon enough to refine the soul when the body has no other choice.
"Happily, I am well supplied with food." He pushed a prodigious leather sack toward Covenant with his foot, and motioned for him to open it. When Covenant loosened its drawstrings, he found salt beef, cheese, old bread, and more than a dozen tangerines as big as his two fists, as well as a leather jug which he could hardly lift. To postpone this difficulty, he tackled the staples first, washing the salt out of his throat with sections of a tangerine. Then he turned his attention to the jug.
"That is diamondraught," said Foamfollower. "It is a vital brew. Perhaps I should- No, the more I look at you, my friend, the more weariness I see. Just drink from the jug. It will aid your rest."
Tilting the jug, Covenant sipped the diamondraught. It tasted like light whiskey, and he could smell its potency; but it was so smooth that it did not bite or burn. He took several relishing swallows, and at once felt deeply refreshed.
Carefully, he closed the jug, replaced the food in the sack, then with an effort pushed the sack back into Foamfollower's reach. The diamondraught glowed in his belly, and he felt that in a little while he would be ready for another story. But as he lay down under the thwarts in the bow, the twilight turned into crystal darkness in the sky, and the stars came out lornly, like scattered children. Before he knew that he was drowsing, he was asleep.
It was an uneasy slumber. He staggered numbly through plague-ridden visions full of dying moons and slaughter and helpless ravaged flesh, and found himself lying in the street near the front bumper of the police car. A circle of townspeople had gathered around him. They had eyes of flint, and their mouths were stretched in one uniform rictus of denunciation. Without exception, they were pointing at his hands. When he lifted his hands to look at them, he saw that they were rife with purple, leprous bruises.
Then two white-clad, brawny men came up to him and manhandled him into a stretcher. He could see the ambulance nearby. But the men did not carry him to it immediately. They stood still, holding him at waist level like a display to the crowd.
A policeman stepped into the circle. His eyes were the color of contempt. He bent over Covenant and said sternly, "You got in my way. That was wrong. You ought to be ashamed." His breath covered Covenant with the smell of attar.
Behind the policeman, someone raised his voice. It was as full of unction as that of Joan's lawyer. It said, "That was wrong."
In perfect unison, all the townspeople vomited gouts of blood onto the pavement.
I don't believe this, Covenant thought.
At once, the unctuous voice purred, "He doesn't believe us." A silent howl of reality, a rabid assertion of
fact, sprang up from the crowd. It battered Covenant until he cowered under it, abject and answerless.
Then the townspeople chorused, "You are dead. Without the community; you can't live. Life is in the community, and you have no community. You can't live if no one cares." The unison of their voices made a sound like crumbling, crushing. When they stopped, Covenant felt that the air in his lungs had been turned to rubble.
With a sigh of satisfaction, the unctuous voice said, "Take him to the hospital. Heal him. There is only one good answer to death: Heal him and throw him out."
The two men swung him into the ambulance. Before the door slammed shut, he saw the townspeople shaking hands with each other, beaming their congratulations. After that, the ambulance started to move. He raised his hands, and saw that the purple spots were spreading up his forearms. He stared at himself in horror, moaning, Hellfire hellfire hellfire!
But then a bubbling tenor voice said kindly, "Do not fear. It is a dream." The reassurance spread over him like a blanket. But he could not feel it with his hands, and the ambulance kept on moving. Needing the blanket, he clenched at the empty air until his knuckles were white with loneliness.
When he felt that he could not ache anymore, the ambulance rolled over, and he fell out of the stretcher into blankness.

Twelve: Revelstone


THE pressure against his left cheek began slowly to wear his skin raw, and the pain nagged him up off the bottom of his slumber. Turbulence rushed under his head, as if he were pillowed on shoals. He
labored his way out of sleep. Then his cheek was jolted twice in rapid succession, and his resting place heaved. Pushing himself up, he smacked his head on a thwart of the boat. Pain throbbed in his skull. He gripped the thwart, swung himself away from the rib which had been rubbing his cheek, and sat up to look over the gunwales.
He found that the situation of the boat had changed radically. No shade or line or resonance of Andelainian richness remained in the surrounding terrain. On the northeast, the river was edged by a high, bluff rock wall. And to the west spread a gray and barren plain, a crippled wilderness like a vast battleground where more than men- had been slain, where the fire that scorched and the blood that drenched had blighted the ground's ability to revitalize itself, bloom againan uneven despoiled lowland marked only by the scrub trees clinging to life along the river which poured into the Soulsease a few hundred yards ahead of the boat. The eastering wind carried an old burnt odor, and behind it lay the fetid memory of a crime.
Already, the river joining ahead troubled the Soulsease-knotted its current, stained its clarity with flinty mud-and Covenant had to grip the gunwales to keep his balance as the pitching of the boat increased.
Foamfollower held the boat in the center of the river, away from the turmoil against the northeast rock wall. Covenant glanced back at the Giant. He was standing in the stern-feet widely braced, tiller clamped under his right arm. At Covenant's glance, he called over the mounting clash of the rivers, "Trothgard lies ahead! Here we turn north-the White River! The Gray comes from the west!" His voice had a strident edge to it, as if he had been singing as strongly as he could all night; but after a moment he sang out a fragment of a different song:

For we will not rest-
not turn aside,
lost faith,
or fail-
until the Gray flows Blue,
and Rill and Maerl are as new and clean
   as ancient Llurallin.

The heaving of the river mounted steadily. Covenant stood in the bottom of the boat-bracing himself against one of the thwarts, gripping the gunwale -and watched the forced commingling of the clean and tainted waters. Then Foamfollower shouted, "One hundred leagues to the Westron Mountains Guards Gap and the high spring of the Llurallin and one hundred fifty southwest to the Last Hills and Garroting Deep! We are seventy from Lord's Keep!"
Abruptly, the river's moiling growl sprang louder, smothered the Giant's voice. An unexpected lash of the current caught the boat and tore its prow to the right, bringing it broadside to the stream. Spray slapped Covenant as the boat heeled over; instinctively, he threw his weight onto the left gunwale.
The neat instant, he heard a snatch of Foamfollower's plainsong, and felt power thrumming deeply along the keel. Slowly, the boat righted itself, swung into the current again.
But the near-disaster had carried them dangerously close to the northeast wall. The boat trembled with energy as Foamfollower worked it gradually back into the steadier water flowing below the main force of the Gray's current. Then the sensation of power faded from the keel.
"Your pardon!" the Giant shouted. "I am losing my seamanship!" His voice was raw with strain.
Covenant's knuckles were white from clenching the gunwales. As he bounced with the pitch of the boat, he remembered, There is only one good answer to death.
One good answer, he thought. This isn't it.
Perhaps it would be better if the boat capsized, tatter if he drowned-better if he did not carry Lord Foul's message halfhanded and beringed to Revelstone. He was not a hero. He could not satisfy such expectations.
"Now the crossing!" Foamfollower called. "We must pass the Gray to go on north. There is no great danger-except that I am weary. And the rivers are high."
This time, Covenant turned and looked closely at the Giant. He saw now that Saltheart Foamfollower was suffering. His cheeks were sunken, hollowed as if something had gouged the geniality out of his face; and his cavernous eyes burned with taut, febrile volition. Weary? Covenant thought. More like exhausted. He lurched awkwardly from thwart to thwart until he reached the Giant. His eyes were no higher than Foamfollower's waist. He tipped his head back to shout, "I'll steer! You rest!"
A smile flickered on the Giant's lips. "I thank you. But no-you are not ready. I am strong enough. But please lift the diamondraught to me."
Covenant opened the food sack and put his hands on the leather jug. Its weight and suppleness made it unwieldy for him, and the tossing of the boat unbalanced him. He simply could not lift the jug. But after a moment he got his arms under it. With a groan of exertion, he heaved it upward.
Foamfollower caught the neck of the jug neatly in his left hand. "Thank you, my friend," he said with a ragged grin. Raising the jug to his mouth, he disregarded the perils of the current for a moment to drink deeply. Then he put down the jug and swung the boat toward the mouth of the Gray River.
Another surge of power throbbed through the craft. As it hit the main force of the Gray, Foamfollower turned downstream and angled across the flow. Energy quivered in the floorboards. In a smooth maneuver, Foamfollower reached the north side of the current, pivoted upstream with the backwash along the wall, and let it sling him into the untroubled White. Once he had rounded the northward curve, the roar of the joining began to drop swiftly behind the boat.
A moment later, the throb of power faded again. Sighing heavily, Foamfollower wiped the sweat from his face. His shoulders sagged, and his head bowed. With labored slowness, he lowered the tiller, and at last dropped into the stern of the boat. "Ah, my friend," he groaned, "even Giants are not made to do such things."
Covenant moved to the center of the boat and took a seat in the bottom, leaning against one of the sides. From that position, he could not see over the gunwales, but he was not at present curious about the terrain. He had other concerns. One of them was Foamfollower's condition. He did not know how the Giant had become so exhausted.
He tried to approach the question indirectly by saying, "That was neatly done. How did you do it? You didn't tell me what powers this thing." And he frowned at the tactless sound of his voice.
"Ask for some other story," Foamfollower sighed wearily. "That one is nearly as long as the history of the Land. I have no heart to teach you the meaning of life here."
"You don't know any short stories," responded Covenant.
At this, the Giant managed a wan smile. "Ah, that is true enough. Well, I will make it brief for you. But then you must promise to tell a story for me-something rare, that I will never guess for myself. I will need that, my friend."
Covenant agreed with a nod, and Foamfollower said, "Well. Eat, and I will talk."
Vaguely surprised at how hungry he was, Covenant tackled the contents of Foamfollower's sack. He munched meat and cheese rapidly, satisfied his thirst with tangerines. And while he ate, the Giant began in a voice flat with fatigue: "The time of Damelon Giantfriend came to an end in the Land before my people had finished the making of Coercri, their home in Seareach. They carved Lord's Keep, as men call it, out of the mountain's heart before they labored on their own Lord-given land, and Loric was High Lord when Coercri was done. Then my forebearers turned their attention outward-to the Sunbirth Sea, and to the friendship of the Land.
"Now, both lillianrill and rhadhamaerl desired to study the lore of the Giants, and the time of High Lord Loric Vilesilencer was one of great growth for the lillianrill. To help in this growth, it was necessary for the Giants to make many sojourns to Lord's Keep" -he broke into a quiet chant, singing for a while as if in invocation of the old grandeur of Giantish reverence-"to mighty Revelstone. This was well, for it kept Revelstone bright in their eyes.
"But the Giants are not great lovers of walking no more so then than now. So my forebearers bethought them of the rivers which flow from the Westron Mountains to the Sea, and decided to build boats. Well, boats cannot come here from the Sea, as you may know-Landsdrop, on which stands Gravin Threndor, blocks the way. And no one, Giant or otherwise, would willingly sail the Defiles Course from Lifeswallower, the Great Swamp. So the Giants built docks on the Soulsease, upriver from Gravin Threndor and the narrows now called Treacher's Gorge. There they kept such boats as this-there, and at Lord's Keep at the foot of Furl Falls, so that at least two hundred leagues of the journey might be on the water which we love.
"In this journeying, Loric and the lillianrill desired to be of aid to the Giants. Out of their power they crafted Gildenlodea strong wood which they named lor-liarill-and from this wood they made rudders and keels for our riverboats. And it was the promise of the Old Lords that, when their omens of hope for us came to pass, then Gildenlode would help us.
"Ah, enough," Foamfollower sighed abruptly. "In short, it is I who impel this craft." He lifted his hand from the tiller, and immediately the boat began to lose headway. "Or rather it is I who call out the power of the Gildenlode. There is life and power in the Earth-in stone and wood and water and earth. But life in them is somewhat hidden-somewhat slumberous. Both knowledge and strength are needed yes, and potent vital songs-to awaken them." He grasped the tiller again, and the boat moved forward once more.
"So I am weary," he breathed. "I have not rested since the night before we met." His tone reminded Covenant of Trell's fatigue after the Gravelingas had healed the broken pot. "For two days and two nights I have not allowed the Gildenlode to stop or slow, though my bones are weak with the expense." To the surprise in Covenant's face, he added, "Yes, my friend-you slept for two nights and a day. From the west of Andelain across the Center Plains to the marge of Trothgard, more than a hundred leagues." After a pause, he concluded, "Diamondraught does such things to humans. But you had need of rest."
For a moment, Covenant sat silent, staring at the floorboards as if he were looking for a place to hit them. His mouth twisted sourly when he raised his head and said, "So now I'm rested. Can I help?"
Foamfollower did not reply immediately. Behind the buttress of his forehead, he seemed to weigh his various uncertainties before he muttered, "Stone and Sea! Of course you can. And yet the very fact of asking shows that you cannot. Some unwillingness or ignorance prevents."
Covenant understood. He could hear dark wings, see slaughtered Wraiths. Wild magic! he groaned. Heroism! This is unsufferable. With a jerk of his head, he knocked transitions aside and asked roughly, "Do you want my ring?"
"Want?" Foamfollower croaked, looking as if he felt he should laugh but did not have the heart for it. "Want?" His voice quavered painfully, as if he were confessing to some kind of aberration. "Do not use such a word, my friend. Wanting is natural, and may succeed or fail without wrong. Say covet, rather. To covet is to desire something which should not be given. Yes, I covet your un-Earth, wild magic, peace ending white gold:
There is wild magic graven in every rock,
contained for white gold to unleash or control
I admit the desire. But do not tempt me. Power has a way of revenging itself upon its usurpers. I would not accept this ring if you offered it to me."
"But you do know how to use it?" Covenant in quired dully, half dazed by his inchoate fear of the answer.
This time Foamfollower did laugh. His humor was emaciated, a mere wisp of its former self, but it was clean and gay. "Ah, bravely said, my friend. So covetousness collapses of its own folly. No, I do not know. If the wild magic may not be called up by the simple decision of use, then I do not understand it at all. Giants do not have such lore. We have always acted for ourselves-though we gladly use such tools as Gildenlode. Well, I am rewarded for unworthy thoughts. Your pardon, Thomas Covenant."
Covenant nodded mutely, as if he had been given an unexpected reprieve. He did not want to know how wild magic worked; he did not want to believe in it in any way. Simply carrying it around was dangerous. He covered it with his right hand and gazed dumbly, helplessly, at the Giant.
After a moment, Foamfollower's fatigue quenched his humor. His eyes dimmed, and his respiration sighed wearily between his slack lips. He sagged on the tiller as if laughing had cost him vital energy. "Now, my friend," he breathed. "My courage is nearly spent. I need your story."
Story? Covenant thought. I don't have any stories. I burned them.
He had burned them-both his new novel and his best-seller. They had been so complacent, so abjectly blind to the perils of leprosy, which lurked secretive and unpredictable behind every physical or moral existence-and so unaware of their own sightlessness. They were carrion-like himself, like himself-fit only for flames. What story could he tell now?
But he had to keep moving, act, survive. Surely he had known that before he had become the victim of dreams. Had he not learned it at the leprosarium, in putrefaction and vomit? Yes, yes! Survive! And yet this dream expected power of him, expected him to put an end to slaughter- Images flashed through him like splinters of vertigo, mirror shards: Joan, police car, Drool's Laval eyes. He reeled as if he were falling.
To conceal his sudden distress, he moved away from Foamfollower, went to sit in the prow facing north. "A story," he said thickly. In fact, he did know one story-one story in all its grim and motley disguises. He sorted quickly, vividly, until he found one which suited the other things he need to articulate. "I'11 tell you a story. A true story."
 He gripped the gunwales, fought down his dizziness.
"It's a story about culture shock. Do you know what culture shock is?" Foamfollower did not reply. "Never mind. I'll tell you about it. Culture shock is what happens when you take a man out of his own world and put him down in a place where the assumptions, the the standards of being a person-are so different that he can't possibly understand them. He isn't built that way. If he's-facile-he can pretend to be someone
else until he gets back to his own world. Or he can just collapse and let himself be rebuilt however. There's no other way.
"I'll give you an example. While I was at the leprosarium, the doctors talked about a man-a leper -like me. Outcast. He was a classic case. He came from another country-where leprosy is a lot more common-he must have picked up the bacillus there as a child, and years later when he had a wife and three kids of his own and was living in another country, he suddenly lost the nerves in his toes and started to go blind.
"Well, if he had stayed in his own country, he would have been- The disease is common-it would have been recognized early. As soon as it was recognized, he-and his wife-and his kids-and everything he owned-and his houseand his animals-and his close relatives-they would have all been declared unclean. His property and house and animals would have been burned to the ground. And he and his wife and his kids and his close relatives would have been sent away to live in the most abject poverty in a village with other people who had the same disease. He would have spent the rest of his life there-without treatment-without hope-while hideous deformity gnawed his arms and legs and face-until he and his wife and his kids and his close relatives all died of gangrene.
"Do you think that's cruel? Let me tell you what did happen to the man. As soon as he recognized his disease, he went to his doctor. His doctor sent him to the leprosarium-alone-without his family-where the spread of the disease was arrested. He was treated, given medicine and training-rehabilitated. Then he was sent home to live a `normal' life with his wife and kids. How nice. There was only one problem. He couldn't handle it.
"To start with, his neighbors gave him a hard time. Oh, at first they didn't know he was sick-they weren't familiar with leprosy, didn't recognize it-but the local newspaper printed a story on him, so that everyone in town knew he was the leper. They shunned him, hated him because they didn't know what to do about him. Then he began to have trouble keeping up his self-treatments. His home country didn't have medicine and leper's therapy-in his bones he believed that such things were magic, that once his disease was arrested he was cured, pardoned-given a stay of something worse than execution. But, to and behold! When he stops taking care of himself, the numbness starts to spread again. Then comes the clincher. Suddenly he finds that behind his back-while he wasn't even looking, much less alert he has been cut off from his family. They don't share his trouble-far from it. They want to get rid of him, go back to living the way they were before.
"So they pack him off to the leprosarium again. But after getting on the plane-they didn't have planes in his home country, either-he goes into the bathroom as if he had been disinherited without anyone ever telling him why and slits his wrists."
He gaped wide-eyed at his own narration. He would have been willing, eager, to weep for the man if he had been able to do so without sacrificing his own defenses. But he could not weep. Instead, he swallowed thickly, and let his momentum carry him on again.
"And I'll tell you something else about culture shock. Every world has its own ways of committing suicide, and it is a lot easier to kill yourself using methods that you're not accustomed to. I could never slit my wrists. I've read too much about it-talked about it too much. It's too vivid. I would throw up. But I could go to that man's world and sip belladonna tea without nausea. Because I don't know enough about it. There's something vague about it, something obscure-something not quite fatal.
"So that poor man in the bathroom sat there for over an hour, just letting his lifeblood run into the sink. He didn't try to get help until all of a sudden, finally, he realized that he was going to die just as dead as if he had sipped belladonna tea. Then he tried to open the door-but he was too weak. And he didn't know how to push the button to get help. They eventually found him in this grotesque position on the floor with his fingers broken, as if he-as if he had tried to crawl under the door. He-"
He could not go on. Grief choked him into silence, and he sat still for a time, while water lamented dimly past the prow. He felt sick, desperate for survival; he could not submit to these seductions. Then Foamfollower's voice reached him. Softly, the Giant said, "Is this why you abandoned the telling of stories?"
Covenant sprang up, whirled in instant rage. "This Land of yours is trying to kill me!" he spat fiercely. "It-you're pressuring me into suicide! White gold! -Berek!-Wraiths! You're doing things to me that I can't handle. I'm not that kind of person-I don't live in that kind of world. All these-seductions! Hell and blood! I'm a leper! Don't you understand that?"
For a long moment, Foamfollower met Covenant's dot gaze, and the sympathy in the Giant's eyes stopped his outburst. He stood glaring with his fingers Jawed while Foamfollower regarded him sadly, wearily. He could see that the Giant did not understand; leprosy was a word that seemed to have no meaning in the Land. "Come on," he said with an ache. "Laugh about it. Joy is in the ears that hear."
But then Foamfollower showed that he did understand something. He reached into his jerkin and drew oat a leather packet, which he unfolded to produce a large sheet of supple hide. "Here," he said, "you will see much of this before you are done with the Land. It is clingor. The Giants brought it to the Land long ages ago-but I will spare us both the effort of telling." He tore a small square from the comer of the sheet and handed the piece to Covenant. It was sticky on both sides, but transferred easily from hand to hand, and left no residue of glue behind. "Trust it. Place your ring upon that piece and hide it under your raiment. No one will know that you bear a talisman of wild magic."
Covenant grasped at the idea. Tugging his ring from his finger, he placed it on the square of clingor. It stuck firmly; he could not shake the ring loose, but he could peel the clingor away without difficulty. Nodding sharply to himself, he placed his ring on the leather, then opened his shirt and pressed the clingor to the center of his chest. It held there, gave him no discomfort. Rapidly, as if to seize an opportunity before it passed, he rebuttoned his shirt. To his surprise, he seemed to feel the weight of the ring on his heart, but he resolved to ignore it.
Carefully, Foamfollower refolded the clingor, replaced it within his jerkin. Then he studied Covenant again briefly. Covenant tried to smile in response, express his gratitude, but his face seemed only capable of snarls. At last, he turned away, reseated himself in the prow to watch the boat's progress and absorb what Foamfollower had done for him.
After musing for a time, he remembered Atiaran's stone knife. It made possible a self-discipline that he sorely needed. He leaned over the side of the boat to wet his face, then took up the knife and painstakingly shaved his whiskers. The beard was eight days old, but the keen, slick blade slid smoothly over his cheeks and down his neck, and he did a passable job of shaving without cutting himself. But he was out of practice, no longer accustomed to the risk; the prospect of blood made his heart tremble. Then he began to see how urgently he needed to return to his real world, needed to recover himself before he altogether lost his ability to survive as a leper.
 Later that day came rain, a light drizzle which spattered the surface of the river, whorling the sky mirror into myriad pieces. The drops brushed his face like spray, seeped slowly into his clothes until he was as soaked and uncomfortable as if he had been drenched. But he endured it in a gray, dull reverie, thinking about what he gained and lost by hiding his ring.
At last, the day ended. Darkness dripped into the air as if the rain were simply becoming blacker, and in the twilight Covenant and Foamfollower ate their supper glumly. The Giant was almost too weak to feed himself, but with Covenant's help he managed a decent meal, drank a great quantity of diamondraught.
Then they returned to their respective silences. Covenant was glad for the dusk; it spared him the sight of Foamfollower's exhaustion. Unwilling to lie down on the damp floorboards, he huddled cold and wet
against the side of the boat and tried to relax, sleep.
After a time, Foamfollower began to chant faintly:

Stone and Sea are deep in life,
two unalterable symbols of the world:
permanence at rest, and permanence in motion;
participants in the Power that remains.

He seemed to gather strength from the song, arid with it he impelled the boat steadily against the current, drove northward as if there were no fatigue that could make him falter.
Finally, the rain stopped; the cloud cover slowly broke open. But Covenant and Foamfollower found no relief in the clear sky. Over the horizon, the red moon stood like a blot, an imputation of evil, on the outraged background of the stars. It turned the surrounding terrain into a dank bloodscape, full of crimson and evanescent forms like uncomprehended murders. And from the light came a putrid emanation, as if the Land were illumined by a bane. Then Foamfollower's plainsong sounded dishearteningly frail, futile, and the stars themselves seemed to shrink away from the moon's course.
But dawn brought a sunlight-washed day unriven by any taint or memory of taint. When Covenant raised himself to look around, he saw mountains directly to the north. They spread away westward, where the tallest of them were still snow-crested; but the range ended abruptly at a point in line with the White River. Already the mountains seemed near at hand.
"Ten leagues," Foamfollower whispered hoarsely. "Half a day against this current."
The Giant's appearance filled Covenant with sharp dismay. Dull-eyed and slack-upped, Foamfollower looked like a corpse of himself. His beard seemed grayer, as if he had aged several years overnight, and a trail of spittle he was helpless to control ran from the corner of his mouth. The pulse in his temples limped raggedly. But his grip on the tiller was as hard as a gnarled knot of wood, and the boat plowed stiffly up the briskening river.
Covenant moved to the stern to try to be of help. He wiped the Giant's lips, then held up the jug of diamondraught so that Foamfollower could drink. The fragments of a smile cracked the Giant's lips, and he breathed, "Stone and Sea. It is no easy thing to be your friend. Tell your next ferryman to take you downstream. Destinations are for stronger souls than mine."
"Nonsense," said Covenant gruffly. "They're going to make up songs about you for this. Don't you think it's worth it?"
Foamfollower tried to respond, but the effort made him cough violently, and he had to retreat into himself, concentrate the fading fire of his spirit on the clench of his fist and the progress of the boat.
"That's all right," Covenant said softly. "Everyone who helps me ends up exhausted-one way or another. If I were a poet, I would make up your song myself." Cursing silently at his helplessness, he fed the Giant sections of tangerine until there was no fruit left. As he looked at Foamfollower, the tall being shriven of everything except the power to endure, self-divested, for reasons Covenant could not comprehend, of every quality of humor or even dignity as if they were mere appurtenances, he felt irrationally in debt to Foamfollower, as if he had been sold-behind his back and with blithe unregard for his consent-into the usury of his only friend. "Everyone who helps me," he muttered again. He found the prices the people of the Land were willing to pay for him appalling.
Finally he was no longer able to stand the sight. He returned to the bow, where he stared at the looming mountains with deserted eyes and grumbled, I didn't ask for this.
Do I hate myself so much? he demanded. But his only answer was the rattle of Foamfollower's breathing.
Half the morning passed that way, measured in butchered hunks out of the impenetrable circumstance of time by the rasp of Foamfollower's respiration. Around the boat the terrain stiffened, as if preparing itself for a leap into the sky. The hills grew higher and more ragged, gradually leaving behind the heather and banyan trees of the plains for a stiffer scrub grass and a few scattered cedars. And ahead the mountains stood taller beyond the hills with every curve of the river. Now Covenant could see that the east end of the range dropped steeply to a plateau like a stair into the mountains-a plateau perhaps two or three thousand feet high that ended in a straight cliff to the foothills. From the plateau came a waterfall, and some effect of the light on the rock made the cascade gleam pale blue as it tumbled. Furl Falls, Covenant said to himself. In spite of the rattle of Foamfollower's breathing, he felt a stirring in his heart, as if he were drawing near to something grand.
But the drawing near lost its swiftness steadily. As the White wound between the hills, it narrowed; and as a result, the current grew increasingly stiff. The Giant seemed to have passed the end of his endurance. His respiration sounded stertorous enough to strangle him at any time; he moved the boat hardly faster than a walk. Covenant did not see how they could cover the last leagues.
He studied the riverbanks for a place to land the boat; he intended somehow to make the Giant take the boat to shore. But while he was still looking, he heard a low rumble in the air like the running of horses. What the hell-? A vision of ur-viles flared in his mind. He snatched up his staff from the bottom of the boat and clenched it, trying to control the sudden drum of his trepidation.
The next moment, like a breaking wave over the crest of a hill upstream and east from the boat, came cantering a score of horses bearing riders. The riders were human, men and women. The instant they saw the boat, one of them shouted, and the group broke into a gallop, sweeping down the hill to rein in at the edge of the river.
The riders looked like warriors. They wore high, soft-soled boots over black leggings, black sleeveless shirts covered by breastplates molded of- a yellow metal, and yellow headbands. A short sword hung from each belt, a bow and quiver of arrows from each back. Scanning them rapidly, Covenant saw the characteristic features of both Woodhelvennin and Stonedownor; some were tall and fair, light-eyed and slim, and others, square, dark, and muscular.
As soon as their horses were stopped, the riders slapped their right fists in unison to their hearts, then extended their arms, palms forward, in the gesture of welcome. A man distinguished by a black diagonal line across his breastplate shouted over the water, "Hail, Rockbrother! Welcome and honor and fealty to you and to your people! I am Quaan, Warhaft of the Third Eoman of the Warward of Lord's Keep!" He paused for a reply, and when Covenant said nothing, he went on in a more cautious tone, "Lord Mhoram sent us. He saw that important matters were moving on the river today. We are come as escort."
Covenant looked at Foamfollower, but what he saw only convinced him that the Giant was past knowing what happened around him. He slumped in the stern, deaf and blind to everything except his failing effort to drive the boat. Covenant turned back toward the Eoman and called out, "Help us! He's dying!"
Quaan stiffened, then sprang into action. He snapped an order, and the next instant he and two other riders plunged their horses into the river. The two others headed directly for the west bank, but Quaan guided his horse to intercept the boat. The mustang swam powerfully, as if such work were part of its training. Quaan soon neared the boat. At the last moment, he stood up on his mount's back and vaulted easily over the gunwales. On command, his horse started back toward the east bank.
Momentarily, Quaan measured Covenant with his eyes, and Covenant saw in his thick black hair, broad shoulders, and transparent face that he was a Stonedownor. Then the Warhaft moved toward Foamfollower. He gripped the Giant's shoulders and shook them, barking words which Covenant could not understand.
At first, Foamfollower did not respond. He sat sightless, transfixed, with his hand clamped like a deathgrip onto the tiller. But slowly Quaan's voice seemed to penetrate him. The cords of his neck trembled as he lifted his head, tortuously brought his eyes into focus on Quaan. Then, with a groan that seemed to spring from the very marrow of his bones, he released the tiller and fell over sideways.
The craft immediately lost headway, began drifting back down river. But by this time the two other riders were ready on the west bank. Quaan stepped past Covenant into the bow of the boat, and when he was in position, one of the two riders threw the end of a long line to him. He caught it neatly and looped it over the prow. It stuck where he put it; it was not rope, but clingor. At once, he turned toward the east bank. Another line reached him, and he attached it also to the prow. The lines pulled taut; the boat stopped drifting. Then Quaan waved his arm, and the riders began moving along the banks, pulling the boat upstream.
As soon as he understood what was being done, Covenant turned back to Foamfollower. The Giant lay where he had fallen, and his breathing was shallow, irregular. Covenant groped momentarily for some way to help, then lifted the leather jug and poured a
quantity of diamondraught over Foamfollower's head. The liquid ran into his mouth; he sputtered at it, swallowed heavily. Then he took a deep, rattling breath, and his eyes slitted open. Covenant held the jug to his lips, and after drinking from it, he stretched out flat in the bottom of the boat. At once, he fell into deep sleep.
In relief, Covenant murmured over him, "Now that's a fine way to end a song-`and then he went to sleep.' What good is being a hero if you don't stay awake until you get congratulated?"
He felt suddenly tired, as if the Giant's exhaustion had drained his own strength, and sighing he sat down on one of the thwarts to watch their progress up the river, while Quaan went to the stern to take the tiller. For a while, Covenant ignored Quaan's scrutiny. But finally he gathered enough energy to say, "He's Saltheart Foamfollower, a-a legate from the Seareach Giants. He hasn't rested since he picked me up in the center of Andelain-three days ago." He saw comprehension of Foamfollower's plight spread across Quaan's face. Then he turned his attention to the passing terrain.
The towing horses kept up a good pace against the White's tightening current. Their riders deftly managed the variations of the riverbanks, trading haulers and slackening one rope or the other whenever necessary. As they moved north, the soil became rockier, and the scrub grass gave way to bracken. Gilden trees spread their broad boughs and leaves more and more thickly over the foothills, and the sunlight made the gold foliage glow warmly. Ahead, the plateau now appeared nearly a league wide, and on its west the mountains stood erect as if they were upright in pride.
By noon, Covenant could hear the roar of the great falls, and he guessed that they were close to Revelstone, though the high foothills now blocked most of his view. The roaring approached steadily. Soon the boat passed under a wide bridge. And a short time later, the riders rounded a last curve, drew the boat into a lake at the foot of Furl Falls.
The lake was round and rough in shape, wide, edged along its whole western side by Gilden and pine. It stood at the base of the cliff-more than two thousand feet of sheer precipice-and the blue water came thundering down into it from the plateau like the loud heart's-blood of the mountains. In the lake, the water was as clean and cool as rain-washed ether, and Covenant could see clearly the depths of its bouldered bottom.
Knotted jacarandas with delicate blue flowers clustered on the wet rocks at the base of the falls, but most of the lake's eastern shore was clear of trees. There stood two large piers and several smaller loading docks. At one pier rested a boat much like the one Covenant rode in, and smaller craft-skiffs and rafts-were tied to the docks. Under Quaan's guidance, the riders pulled the boat up to one of the piers, where two of the Eoman made it fast. Then the Warhaft gently awakened Foamfollower.
The Giant came out of his sleep with difficulty, but when he pried his eyes open they were calm, unhaggard, though he looked as weak as if his bones were made of sandstone. With help from Quaan and Covenant, he climbed into a sitting position. There he rested, looking dazedly about him as if he wondered where his strength had gone.
After a time, he said thinly to Quaan, "Your pardon, r Warhaft. I am-a little tired."
"I see you," Quaan murmured. "Do not be concerned. Revelstone is near."
For a moment, Foamfollower frowned in perplexity as he tried to remember what had happened to him. Then a look of recollection tensed his face. "Send riders," he breathed urgently. "Gather the Lords. There must be a Council."
Quaan smiled. "Times change, Rockbrother. The newest Lord, Mhoram son of Variol, is a seer and oracle. Ten days ago he sent riders to the Loresraat, and to High Lord Prothall in the north. All will be at the Keep tonight."
"That is well," the Giant sighed. "These are shadowed times. Terrible purposes are abroad."
"So we have seen," responded Quaan grimly. "But Saltheart Foamfollower has hastened enough. I will send the fame of your brave journey ahead to the Keep. They will provide a litter to bear you, if you desire it."
Foamfollower shook his head, and Quaan vaulted up to the pier to give orders to one of his Eoman. The Giant looked at Covenant and smiled faintly. "Stone and Sea, my friend," he said, "did I not say that I would bring you here swiftly?"
That smile touched Covenant's heart like a clasp of affection. Thickly, he replied, "Next time take it easier. I can't stand-watching- Do you always keep promises-this way?"
"Your messages are urgent. How could I do otherwise?"
From his leper's perspective, Covenant countered, "Nothing's that urgent. What good does anything do you if you kill yourself in the process?"
For a moment, Foamfollower did not respond. He braced a heavy hand on Covenant's shoulder, and heaved himself, tottering, to his feet. Then he said as if he were answering Covenant's question, "Come. We must see Revelstone."
Willing hands helped him onto the pier, and shortly he was standing on the shore of the lake. Despite the toll of his exertion, he dwarfed even the men and women on horseback. And as Covenant joined him, he introduced his passenger with a gesture like an according of dominion. "Eoman of the Warward, this is my friend, Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and message-bearer to the Council of Lords. He partakes of many strange knowledges, but he does not know the Land. Ward him well, for the sake of friendship, and for the semblance which he bears of Berek Heartthew, Earthfriend and Lord-Fatherer."
In response, Quaan gave, Covenant the salute of welcome. "I offer you the greetings of Lord's Keep, Giant-wrought Revelstone," he said. "Be welcome in the Land-welcome and true."
Covenant returned the gesture brusquely, but did not speak, and a moment later Foamfollower said to
Quaan, "Let us go. My eyes are hungry to behold the great work of my forebearers."
The Warhaft nodded, spoke to his command. At once, two riders galloped away to the east, and two more took positions on either side of the Giant so that he could support himself on the backs of their horses. Another warrior, a young, fair-haired Woodhelvennin woman, offered Covenant a ride behind her. For the first time, he noticed that the saddles of the Eoman were nothing but clingor, neither horned nor padded, forming broad seats and tapering on either side into stirrup loops. It would be like riding a blanket glued to both horse and rider. But though Joan had taught him the rudiments of riding, he had never overcome his essential distrust of horses. He refused the offer. He got his staff from the boat and took a place beside one of the horses supporting Foamfollower, and the Eoman started away from the lake with the two travelers.
They passed around one foothill on the south side, and joined the road from the bridge below the lake. Eastward, the road worked almost straight up the side of a traverse ridge. The steepness of the climb made Foamfollower stumble several times, and he was barely strong enough to catch himself on the horses. But when he had labored up the ridge, he stopped, lifted up his head, spread his arms wide, and began to laugh. "There, my friend. Does that not answer you?" His voice was weak, but gay with refreshed joy.
Ahead over a few lower hills was Lord's Keep.
The sight caught Covenant by surprise, almost took his breath away. Revelstone was a masterwork. It stood in granite permanence like an enactment of eternity, a timeless achievement formed of mere lasting rock by some pure, supreme Giantish participation in skill.
Covenant agreed that Revelstone was too short a same for it.
The eastern end of the plateau was finished by a broad shaft of rock, half as high as the plateau and separate from it except at the base, the first several hundred feet. This shaft had been hollowed into a
tower which guarded the sole entrance to the Keep, and circles of windows rose up past the abutments to the fortified crown. But most of Lord's Keep was carved into the mountain gut-rock under the plateau.
A surprising distance from the tower, the entire cliff face had been worked by the old Giants-sheered and crafted into a vertical outer wall for the city, which, Covenant later learned, filled this whole, wedge shaped promontory of the plateau. The wall was intricately labored-lined and coigned and serried with regular and irregular groups of windows, balconies, buttresses-orieled and parapeted-wrought in a prolific and seemingly spontaneous multitude of details which appeared to be on the verge of crystallizing into a pattern. But light flashed and danced on the polished cliff face, and the wealth of variation in the work overwhelmed Covenant's senses, so that he could not grasp whatever pattern might be there.
But with his new eyes he could see the thick, bustling, communal life of the city. It shone from behind the wall as if the rock were almost translucent, almost lit from within like a chiaroscuro by the lifeforce of its thousands of inhabitants. The sight made the whole Keep swirl before him. Though he looked at it from a distance, and could encompass it all Furl Falls roaring on one side and the expanse of the plains reclining on the other-he felt that the old Giants had outdone him. Here was a work worthy of pilgrimages, ordeals. He was not surprised to hear Foamfollower whisper like a vestal, "Ah, Revelstone! Lord's Keep! Here the Unhomed surpass their loss."
The Eoman responded in litany:
Giant-troth Revelstone, ancient ward-
Heart and door of Earthfriend's main:
Preserve the true with Power's sword,
Thou ages-Keeper, mountain-reign!
Then the riders started forward again. Foamfollower and Covenant moved in wonder toward the looming walls, and the distance passed swiftly, unmarked except by the beat of their uplifted hearts.
The road ran parallel to the cliff to its eastern edge, then turned up toward the tall doors in the southeast base of the tower. The gates-a mighty slab of rock on either side-were open in the free welcome of peace; but they were notched and beveled and balanced so that they could swing shut and interlock, closing like teeth. The entrance they guarded was large enough for the whole Eoman to ride in abreast.
As they approached the gates, Covenant saw a blue flag flying high on the crown of the tower-an azure oriflamme only a shade lighter than the clear sky. Beneath it was a smaller flag, a red pennant the color of the bloody moon and Drool's eyes. Seeing the direction of Covenant's gaze, the woman near him said, "Do you know the colors? The blue is High Lord's Furl, the standard of the Lords. It signifies their Oath and guidance to the peoples of the Land. And the red is the sign of our present peril. It will fly there while the danger lasts."
Covenant nodded without taking his eyes off the Keep. But after a moment he looked away from the flags down toward the entrance to Revelstone. The opening looked like a cave that plunged straight into the mountain, but he could see sunlight beyond it.
Three sentries stood in an abutment over the gates. Their appearance caught Covenant's attention; they did not resemble the riders of the Warward. They were like Stonedownors in size and build, but they were flat-faced and brown-skinned, with curly hair cropped short. They wore short ocher tunics belted in blue that appeared to be made of vellum, and their lower legs and feet were bare. Simply standing casual and unarmed on the abutment, they bore themselves with an almost feline balance and alertness; they seemed ready to do battle at an instant's notice.
When his Eoman was within call of the gate, Quaan shouted to the sentries; "Hail! First Mark Tuvorl How is it that the Bloodguard have become guest welcomers?"
The foremost of the sentries responded in a voice that sounded foreign, awkward, as if the speaker were accustomed to a language utterly unlike the speech of the Land. "Giants and message-bearers have come together to the Keep."
"Well, Bloodguard," Quaan returned in a tone of camaraderie, "learn your duties. The Giant is Saltheart Foamfollower, legate from Seareach to the Council of Lords. And the man, the message-bearer, is Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and stranger to the Land. Are their places ready?"
"The orders are given. Bannor and Korik await."
Quaan waved in acknowledgment. With his warriors, he rode into the stone throat of Lord's Keep.

Thirteen: Vespers


As he stepped between the balanced jaws, Covenant gripped his staff tightly in his left hand. The entrance was like a tunnel leading under the tower to an open courtyard between the tower and the main Keep, and it was lit only by the dim, reflected sunlight from either end. There were no doors or windows in the stone. The only openings were dark shafts directly overhead, which appeared to serve some function in Revelstone's defenses. The hooves of the horses struck echoes off the smooth stone, filling the tunnel like a rumor of war, and even the light click of Covenant's staff pranced about him as if shadows of himself were walking one hesitation step behind him down the Keep's throat.
Then the Eoman entered the sunlit courtyard. Here the native stone had been hollowed down to the level of the entrance so that a space nearly as wide as the tower stood open to the sky between high sheer walls.
The court was flat and flagged, but in its center was a broad plot of soil out of which grew one old Gilden, and a small fountain sparkled on either side of the hoary tree. Beyond were more stone gates like those in the base of the tower, and they also were open. That was the only ground-level entrance to the Keep, but at intervals above the court, wooden crosswalks spanned the open space from the tower to crenellated coigns on the inner face of the Keep. In addition, two doors on either side of the tunnel provided access to the tower.
Covenant glanced up the main Keep. Shadows lay within the south and east walls of the court, but the heights still gleamed in the full shine of the afternoon sun, and from his angle, Revelstone seemed tall enough to provide a foundation for the heavens. For a moment as he gazed, his awe made him wish that he were, like Foamfollower, an inheritor of Lord's Keep -that he could in some way claim its grandeur for himself. He wanted to belong here. But as Revelstone's initial impact on him passed, he began to resist the desire. It was just another seduction, and he had already lost too much of his fragile, necessary independence. He shut down his awe with a hard frown, pressed his hand against his ring. The fact that it was hidden steadied him.
There lay the only hope that he could imagine, the only solution to his paradoxical dilemma. As long as he kept his ring secret, he could deliver his message to the Lords, satisfy his exigent need to keep moving, and still avoid dangerous expectations, demands of power that he could not meet. Foamfollower-and Atiaran, too, perhaps involuntarily had given him a certain freedom of choice. Now he might be able to preserve himself-if he could avoid further seductions, and if the Giant did not reveal his secret.
"Foamfollower," he began, then stopped. Two men were approaching him and the Giant from the main Keep. They resembled the sentries. Their flat, unreadable faces showed no signs of youth or age, as if their relationship with time was somehow ambivalent; and they conveyed such an impression of solidity to Covenant's eyes that he was distracted from the Giant. They moved evenly across the courtyard as if they were personified rock. One of them greeted Foamfollower, and the other strode toward Covenant.
When he reached Covenant, he bowed fractionally and said, "I am Bannor of the Bloodguard. You are in my charge. I will guide you to the place prepared." His voice was awkward, as if his tongue could not relax in the language of the Land, but through his tone Covenant heard a stiffness that sounded like distrust.
It and the Bloodguard's hard, imposing aura made him abruptly uneasy. He looked toward Foamfollower, saw him give the other Bloodguard a salute full of respect and old comradeship. "Hail, Korik!" Foamfollower said. "To the Bloodguard I bring honor and fealty from the Giants of Seareach. These are consequential times, and in them we are proud to name the Bloodguard among our friends."
Flatly, Korik responded, "We are the Bloodguard. Your chambers have been made ready, so that you may rest. Come."
Foamfollower smiled. "That is well. My friend, I am very weary." With Korik, he walked toward the gates.
Covenant started after them, but Bannor barred his way with one strong arm. "You will accompany me," the Bloodguard said without inflection.
"Foamfollower!" Covenant called uncertainly. "Foamfollower! Wait for me."
Over his shoulder, the Giant replied, "Go with Bannor. Be at Peace." He seemed to have no awareness of Covenant's misapprehension; his tone expressed only grateful relief, as if rest and Revelstone were his only thoughts. "We will meet again-tomorrow." Moving as if he trusted the Bloodguard implicitly, he went with Korik into the main Keep.
"Your place is in the tower," Bannor said.
"In the tower? Why?"
The Bloodguard shrugged. "If you question this, you will be answered. But now you must accompany me.
For a moment, Covenant met Bannor's level eyes, and read there the Bloodguard's competence, his ability and willingness to enforce his commands. The sight sharpened Covenant's anxiety still further. Even the eyes of Soranal and Baradakas when they had first captured him, thinking him a Raver, had not held such a calm and committed promise of coercion, violence. The Woodhelvennin had been harsh because of their habitual gentleness, but Bannor's gaze gave no hint of any Oath of Peace. Daunted, Covenant looked away. When Bannor started toward one of the tower doors, he followed in uncertainty and trepidation.
The door opened as they approached, and closed behind them, though Covenant could not see who or what moved it. It gave into an open-centered, spiral stairwell, up which Bannor climbed steadily until after a hundred feet or more he reached another door. Beyond it, Covenant found himself in a jumbled maze of passageways, stairs, doors that soon confused his sense of direction completely. Bannor led him this way and that at irregular intervals, up and down unmeasured flights of steps, along broad and then narrow corridors, until he feared that he would not be able to make his way out again without a guide. From time to time, he caught glimpses of other people, primarily Bloodguard and warriors, but he did not encounter any of them. At last, however, Bannor stopped in the middle of what appeared to be a blank corridor. With a short gesture, he opened a hidden door. Covenant followed him into a large living chamber with a balcony beyond it.
Bannor waited while Covenant gave the room a brief look, then said, "Call if there is anything you require," and left, pulling the door shut behind him.
For a moment, Covenant continued to glance around him; he took a mental inventory of the furnishings so that he would know where all the dangerous corners, projections, edges were. The room contained a bed, a bath, a table arrayed with food, chairs-one of which was draped with a variety of apparel-and an arras on one wall. But none of these
presented any urgent threat, and shortly his gaze returned to the door.
It had no handle, knob, latch, draw-line-no means by which he could open it.
What the hell-?
He shoved at it with his shoulder, tried to grip it by the edges and pull; he could not budge the heavy stone.
"Bannor!" With a wrench, his mounting fear turned to anger. "Bloody damnation! Bannor. Open this door!"
Almost immediately, the stone swung inward. Bannor stood impassively in the doorway. His flat eyes were expressionless.
"I can't open the door," Covenant snapped. "What is this? Some kind of prison?"
Bannor's shoulders lifted fractionally. "Call it what you choose. You must remain here until the Lords are prepared to send for you."
" `Until the Lords are prepared.' What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Just sit here and think?"
"Eat. Rest. Do whatever you will."
"I'll tell you what I will. I will not stay here and go crazy waiting for the good pleasure of those Lords of yours. I came here all the way from Kevin's Watch to talk to them. I risked my-" With an effort, he caught himself. He could see that his fuming made no impression on the Bloodguard. He gripped his anger with both hands, and said stiffly, "Why am I a prisoner?"
"Message-bearers may be friends or foes," Bannor replied. "Perhaps you are a servant of Corruption. The safety of the Lords is in our care. The Bloodguard will not permit you to endanger them. We will be sure of you before we allow you to move freely."
Hellfire! Covenant swore. Just what I need. The room behind him seemed suddenly full of the dark, vulturine thoughts on which he had striven so hard to turn his back. How could he defend against them if he did not keep moving? But he could not bear to stand where he was with all his fears exposed to Bannor's dispassionate scrutiny. He forced himself to turn around. "Tell them I don't like to wait." Trem
bling, he moved to the table and picked up a stoneware flask of springwine.
When he heard the door close, he took a long draft like a gesture of defiance. Then, with his teeth clenched on the fine beery flavor of the springwine, he looked around the room again, glared about him as if he were daring dark specters to come out of hiding and attack.
This time, the arras caught his attention. It was a thick, varicolored weaving, dominated by stark reds and sky blues, and after a moment's incomprehension he realized that it depicted the legend of Berek Halfhand.
Prominent in the center stood the figure of Berek in a stylized stance which combined striving and beatitude. And around this foreground were worked scenes encapsulating the Lord-Fatherer's history-his pure loyalty to his Queen, the King's greedy pursuit of power, the Queen's repudiation of her husband, Berek's exertions in the war, the cleaving of his hand, his despair on Mount Thunder, the victory of the Fire-Lions. The effect of the whole was one of salvation, of redemption purchased on the very brink of ruin by rectitude-as if the Earth itself had intervened, could be trusted to intervene, to right the moral imbalance of the war.
Oh, bloody hell! Covenant groaned. Do I have to put up with this?
Clutching the stoneware flask as if it were the only solid thing in the room, he went toward the balcony.
He stopped in the entryway, braced himself against the stone. Beyond the railing of the balcony was a fall of three or four hundred feet to the foothills. He did not dare step out to the railing; already a premonition of giddiness gnawed like nausea in his guts. But he made himself look outward long enough to identify his surroundings.
The balcony was in the eastern face of the tower, overlooking a broad reach of plains. The late afternoon sun cast the shadow of the promontory eastward like an aegis, and in the subdued light beyond the shadow the plains appeared various and colorful.
Bluish grasslands and plowed brown fields and newgreen crops intervaled each other into the distance, and between them sun-silvered threads of streams ran east and south; the clustered spots of villages spread a frail web of habitation over the fields; purple heather and gray bracken lay in broadening swaths toward the north. To his right, Covenant could see far away the White River winding in the direction of Trothgard.
The sight reminded him of how he had come to this place-of Foamfollower, Atiaran, Wraiths, Baradakas, a murdered Waynhim- A vertigo of memories gyred up out of the foothills at him. Atiaran had blamed him for the slaughter of the Wraiths. And yet she had forsworn her own just desire for retribution, her just rage. He had done her so much harm. He recoiled back into the chamber, stumbled to sit down at the table. His hands shook so badly that he could not drink from the flask. He set it down, clenched both fists, and pressed his knuckles against the hard ring hidden over his heart.
I will not think about it.
A scowl like a contortion of the skull gripped his forehead.
I am not Berek.
He locked himself there until the sound of dangerous wings began to recede, and the giddy pain in his stomach eased. Then he unclawed his stiff fingers. Ignoring their impossible sensitivity, he started to eat.
On the table he found a variety of cold meats, cheeses, and fruits, with plenty of brown bread. He ate, deliberately, woodenly, like a puppet acting out the commands of his will, until he was no longer hungry. Then he stripped off his clothes and bathed, scrubbing himself thoroughly and scrutinizing his body to be sure he had no hidden wounds. He sorted through the clothing provided for him, finally donned a pale blue robe which he could tie closed securely to conceal his ring. Using Atiaran's knife, he shaved meticulously. Then, with the same wooden deliberateness, he washed his own clothes in the bath and hung them on chair backs to dry. All the time, his thoughts ran to the rhythm of,
I will not
I am not
While he worked, evening drifted westward over Revelstone, and when he was done he set a chair in the entrance to the balcony so that he could sit and watch the twilight without confronting the height of his perch. But darkness appeared to spread outward from the unlit room behind him into the wide world, as if his chamber were the source of night. Before long, the empty space at his back seemed to throng with carrion eaters.
He felt in the depths of his heart that he was becoming frantic to escape this dream.
The knock at his door jolted him, but he yanked his way through the darkness to answer it. "Come come in." In momentary confusion, he groped for a handle which was not there. Then the door opened to a brightness that dazzled him.
At first, all he could see were three figures, one back against the wall of the outer corridor and two directly in the doorway. One of them held a flaming wooden rod in either hand, and the other had each arm wrapped around a pot of graveling. The dazzle made them appear to loom toward him out of a penumbra, and he stepped back, blinking rapidly.
As if his retreat were a welcome, the two men entered his room. From behind them a voice curiously rough and gentle said, "May we come in? I am Lord Mhoram-"
"Of course," the taller of the two men interrupted in a voice veined and knuckled with old age. "He requires light, does he not? Darkness withers the heart. How can he receive light if we do not come in? Now if he knew anything, he could fend for himself. Of course. And he will not see much of us. Too busy. There is yet Vespers to attend to: The High Lord may have special instructions. We are late as it is. Because he knows nothing. Of course. But we are swift. Darkness withers the heart. Pay attention, young man. We cannot afford to return merely to redeem your ignorance."
While the man spoke, jerking the words like lazy servants up off the floor of his chest, Covenant's eyes cleared. Before him, the taller man resolved into an erect but ancient figure, with a narrow face and a beard that hung like a tattered flag almost to his waist. He wore a Woodhelvennin cloak bordered in blue, and a circlet of leaves about his head.
His immediate companion appeared hardly older than a boy. The youth was clad in a brown Stonedownor tunic with blue woven like epaulets into the shoulders, and he had a clean, merry face. He was grinning at the old man in amusement and affection.
As Covenant studied the pair, the man behind them said admonishingly, "He is a guest, Birinair." The old man paused as if he were remembering his manners, and Covenant looked past him at Lord Mhoram. The Lord was a lean man about Covenant's height. He wore a long robe the color of High Lord's Furl, with a pitch-black sash, and held a long staff in his right hand.
Then the old man cleared his throat. "Ah, very well," he fussed. "But this uses time, and we are late. There is Vespers to be made ready. Preparations for the Council. Of course. You are a guest. Be welcome. I am Birinair, Hirebrand of the lillianrill and Hearthrall of Lord's Keep. This grinning whelp is Tohrm, Gravelingas of the rhadhamaert and likewise Hearthrall of Lord's Keep. Now harken. Attend." In high dignity, he moved toward the bed. Above it in the wall was a torch socket. Birinair said, "These are made for ignorant young men like yourself," and set the burning end of one rod in the socket. The flame died; but when he removed the rod, its fire returned almost at once. He placed the unlit end in the socket, then moved across the chamber to fix his other rod in the opposite wall.
While the Hirebrand was busy, Tohrm set one of his graveling pots down on the table and the other on the stand by the washbasin. "Cover them when you wish to sleep," he said in a light voice.
When he was done, Birinair said, "Darkness with- the heart. Beware of it, guest."
"But courtesy is like a drink at a mountain stream," murmured Tohrm, grinning as if at a secret joke.
"It is so." Birinair turned and left the room. Tohrm paused to wink at Covenant and whisper, "He is not as hard a taskmaster as you might think." Then he, too, was gone, leaving Covenant alone with Lord Mhoram.
Mhoram closed the door behind him, and Covenant got his first good look at one of the Lords. Mhoram had a crooked, humane mouth, and a fond smile for the Hearthralls lingered on his lips. But the effect of the smile was counterbalanced by his eyes. They were dangerous eyes-gray-blue irises flecked with goldthat seemed to pierce through subterfuge to the secret marrow of premeditation in what they beheld-eyes that seemed themselves to conceal something potent and unknown, as if Mhoram were capable of surprising fate itself if he were driven to his last throw. And between his perilous eyes and kind mouth, the square blade of his nose mediated like a rudder, steering his thoughts.
Then Covenant noticed Mhoram's staff. It was metal-shod like the Staff of Law, which he had glimpsed in Drool's spatulate fingers, but it was innocent of the carving that articulated the Staff. Mhoram held it in his left hand while he gave Covenant the salute of welcome with his right. Then he folded his arms on his chest, holding the staff in the crook of his elbow.
His lips twisted through a combination of amusement, diffidence, and watchfulness as he spoke. "Let me begin anew. I am Lord Mhoram son of Variol. Be welcome in Revelstone, Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and message-bearer. Birinair is Hearthrall and chief lillianrill of Lord's Keep-but nevertheless there is time before Vespers. So I have come for several reasons. First to bid you welcome, second to answer the questions of a stranger in the Land-and last to inquire after the purpose which brings you to the Council. Pardon me if I seem formal. You are a stranger, and I know not how to honor you."
Covenant wanted to respond. But he still felt confused by darkness; he needed time to clear his head. He blinked at the Lord for a moment, then said to fill the silence, "That Bloodguard of yours doesn't trust me."
Mhoram smiled wryly. "Bannor told me that you believe you have been emprisoned. That is also why I determined to speak with you this evening. It is not our custom to examine guests before they have rested. But I must say a word or two concerning the Bloodguard. Shall we be seated?" He took a chair for himself, sitting with his staff across his knees as naturally as if it were a part of him.
Covenant sat down by the table without taking his eyes off Mhoram. When he was settled, the Lord continued: "Thomas Covenant, I tell you openly-I assume that you are a friend-or at least not an enemy -until you are proven. You are a guest, and should be shown courtesy. And we have sworn the Oath of Peace. But you are as strange to us as we to you. And the Bloodguard have spoken a Vow which is not in any way like our Oath. They have sworn to serve the Lords and Revelstone-to preserve us against any threat by the strength of their fidelity." He sighed distantly. "Ah, it is humbling to be so served-in defiance of time and death. But let that pass. I must tell you two things. Left to the dictates of their Vow, the Bloodguard would slay you instantly if you raised your hand against any Lord-yes, against any inhabitant of Revelstone. But the Council of Lords has commanded you to their care. Rather than break that command-rather than permit any harm to befall you -Bannor or any Bloodguard would lay down his life in your defense."
When Covenant's face reflected his doubt, the Lord said, "I assure you. Perhaps it would be well for you to question Bannor concerning the Bloodguard. His distrust may not distress you-when you have come to understand it. His people are the Haruchai, who live high in the Westron Mountains beyond the passes which we now name Guards Gap. In the first years of Kevin Loric-son's High Lordship they came to the Land-came, and remained to make a Vow like that swearing which binds even the gods." For a moment, he seemed lost in contemplation of the Bloodguard. "They were a hot-blooded people, strong-Joined and prolific, bred to tempest and battle-and now made by their pledged loyalty ascetic, womanless and old. I tell you, Thomas Covenant-their devotion has had such unforeseen prices- Such one-mindedness does not come easily to them, and their only reward is the pride of unbroken, pure service. And then to learn the bitterness of doubt-" Mhoram sighed again, then smiled diffidently. "Inquire of Bannor. I am too young to tell the tale aright."
Too young? Covenant wondered. How old are they? But he did not ask the question; he feared that the story Mhoram could tell would be as seductive as Foamfollower's tale of the Unhomed. After a moment, he pulled the loose ends of his attention together, and said, "I've got to talk to the Council."
Mhoram's gaze met him squarely. "The Lords will meet tomorrow to hear both you and Saltheart Foamfollower. Do you wish to speak now?" The Lord's gold-flecked eyes seemed to flame with concentration. Unexpectedly, he asked, "Are you an enemy, Unbeliever?"
Covenant winced inwardly. He could feel Mhoram's scrutiny as if its heat burned his mind. But he was determined to resist. Stiffly, he countered, "You're the seer and oracle. You tell me."
"Did Quaan call me that?" Mhoram's smile was disarming. "Well, I showed prophetic astuteness when I let a mere red moon disquiet me. Perhaps my oracular powers amaze you." Then he set aside his quiet self deprecation, and repeated intently, "Are you an enemy?"
Covenant returned the Lord's gaze, hoping that his own eyes were hard, uncompromising. I will not- he thought. Am not- "I'm not anything to you by choice I've got-a message for you. One way or another, I've
been pressured into bringing it here. And some things happened along the way that might interest you."
"Tell me," Mhoram said in soft urgency.
But his look reminded Covenant of Baradakas-of Atiaran-of the times they had said, You are closed- He could see Mhoram's health, his dangerous courage, his vital love for the Land. "People keep asking me that," he murmured. "Can't you tell?"
An instant later, he answered himself, Of course not. What do they know about leprosy? Then he grasped the reason behind Mhoram's question. The Lord wanted to hear him talk, wanted his voice to reveal his truth or falsehood. Mhoram's ears could discern the honesty or irrectitude of the answer.
Covenant glanced at the memory of Foul's message, then turned away in self-defense. "No-I'll save it for the Council. Once is enough for such things. My tongue'll turn to sand if I have, to say it twice."
Mhoram nodded as if in acceptance. But almost immediately he asked, "Does your message account for the befouling of the moon?"
Instinctively, Covenant looked out over his balcony.
There, sailing tortuously over the horizon like a plague ship, was the bloodstained moon. Its glow rode the plains like an incarnadine phantasm. He could not keep the shudder out of his voice as he replied. "He's showing off-that's all. Just showing us what he can do." Deep in his throat, he cried, Hellfirel Foul! The Wraiths were helpless! What do you do for an encore, rape children?
"Ah," Lord-Mhoram groaned, "this comes at a bad time." He stepped away from his seat and pulled a wooden partition shut across the entrance to the balcony. "The Warward numbers less than two thousand. The Bloodguard are only five hundred-a pittance for any task but the defense of Revelstone. And there are only five Lords. Of those, two are old, at the limit of their strength, and none have mastered more than the smallest part of Kevin's First Ward. We are weaker than any other Earthfriends in all the ages of the Land. Together we can hardly make scrub grass grow in Kurash Plenethor.
"There have been more," he explained, returning to his seat, "but in the last generation nearly all the best at the Loresraat have chosen the Rites of Unfettering. I am the first to pass the tests in fifteen years. Alas, it is in my heart that we will want other power now." He clenched his staff until his knuckles whitened, and for a moment his eyes did not conceal his sense of need.
Gruffly, Covenant said, "Then tell your friends to brace themselves. You're not going to like what I've got to say."
But Mhoram relaxed slowly, as if he had not heard Covenant's warning. One finger at a time, he released his grip until the staff lay untouched in his lap. Then he smiled softly. "Thomas Covenant, I am not altogether reasonless when I assume that you are not an enemy. You have a lillianrill staff and a rhadhamaerl knife-yes, and the staff has seen struggle against a strong foe. And I have already spoken with Saltheart Foamfollower. You have been trusted by others. I do not think you would have won your way here without trust."
"Hellfire!" retorted Covenant. "You've got it backward." He threw his words like stones at a false image of himself. "They coerced me into coming. It wasn't my idea. I haven't had a choice since this thing started." With his fingers he touched his chest to remind himself of the one choice he did have.
"Unwilling," Mhoram replied gently. "So there is good reason for calling you `Unbeliever.' Well, let it pass. We will hear your tale at the Council tomorrow.
"Now. I fear I have given your questions little opportunity. But the time for Vespers has come. Will you accompany me? If you wish we will speak along the way."
Covenant nodded at once. In spite of his weariness, he was eager for a chance to be active, keep his thoughts busy. The discomfort of being interrogated eras only a little less than the distress of the questions he wanted to ask about white gold. To escape his complicated vulnerabilities, he stood up and said, "Lead the way."
The Lord bowed in acknowledgment, and at once preceded Covenant into the corridor outside his room. There they found Bannor. He stood against the wall near the door with his arms folded stolidly across his chest, but he moved to join them as Mhoram and Covenant entered the passageway. On an impulse, Covenant intercepted him. He met Bannor's gaze, touched the Bloodguard's chest with one rigid finger, and said, "I don't trust you either." Then he turned in angry satisfaction back to the Lord.
Mhoram paused while Bannor went into Covenant's room to pick up one of the torches. Then the Bloodguard took a position a step behind Covenant's left shoulder, and Lord Mhoram led them down the corridor. Soon Covenant was lost again; the complexities of the tower confused him as quickly as a maze. But in a short time they reached a hall which seemed to end in a dead wall of stone. Mhoram touched the stone with an end of his staff, and it swung inward, opening over the courtyard between the tower and the main Keep. From this doorway, a crosswalk stretched over to a buttressed coign.
Covenant took one look at the yawning gulf of the courtyard, and backed away. "No," he muttered, "forget it. I'll just stay here if you don't mind." Blood rushed like shame into his face, and a rivulet of sweat ran coldly down his back. "I'm no good at heights."
The Lord regarded him curiously for a moment, but did not challenge his reaction. "Very well," he said simply. "We will go another way."
Sweating half in relief, Covenant followed as Mhoram retraced part of their way, then led a complex descent to one of the doors at the base of the tower. There they crossed the courtyard.
Then for the first time Covenant was in the main body of Revelstone.
Around him, the Keep was brightly lit with torches and graveling. Its walls were high and broad enough for Giants, and their spaciousness contrasted strongly with the convolution of the tower. In the presence of so much wrought, grand and magisterial granite, such a weight of mountain rock spanning such open, illuminated halls, he felt acutely his own meagerness, his mere frail mortality. Once again, he sensed that the makers of Revelstone had surpassed him.
But Mhoram and Bannor did not appear meager to him. The Lord strode forward as if these halls were his natural element, as if his humble flesh flourished in the service of this old grandeur. And Bannor's personal solidity seemed to increase, as if he bore within him something that almost equaled Revelstone's permanence. Between them, Covenant felt half disincarnate, void of some essential actuality.
A snarl jumped across his teeth, and his shoulders hunched as he strangled such thoughts. With a grim effort, he forced himself to concentrate on the superficial details around him.
They turned down a hallway which went straight but for gradual undulations, as if it were carved to suit the grain of the rock-into the heart of the mountain. From it, connecting corridors branched out at various intervals, some cutting directly across between cliff and cliff, and some only joining the central hall with the outer passages. Through these corridors, a steadily growing number of men and women entered the central hall, all, Covenant guessed, going toward Vespers. Some wore the breastplates and headbands of warriors; others, Woodhelvennin and Stonedownor garb with which Covenant was familiar. Several struck him as being related in some way to the lillianrill or rhadhamaerl; but many more seemed to belong to the more prosaic occupations of running a city-cooking, cleaning, building, repairing, harvesting. Scattered through the crowd were a few Bloodguard. Many of the people nodded and beamed respectfully at Lord Mhoram, and he returned salutations in all directions, often hailing his greeters by game. But behind him, Bannor carried the torch and walked as inflexibly as if he were alone in the Keep.
As the throng thickened, Mhoram moved toward the wall on one side, then stopped at a door. Opening he turned to Bannor and said, "I must join the High Lord. Take Thomas Covenant to a place among the people in the sacred enclosure." To Covenant, he added, "Bannor will bring you to the Close at the proper time tomorrow." With a salute, he left Covenant with the Bloodguard.
Now Bannor led Covenant ahead through Revelstone. After some distance, the hall ended, split at right angles to arc left and right around a wide wall, and into this girdling corridor the people poured from all directions. Doors large enough to admit Giants marked the curved wall at regular intervals; through them the people passed briskly, but without confusion or jostling.
On either side of each door stood a Gravelingas and a Hirebrand; and as Covenant neared one of the doors, he heard the door wardens intoning, "If there is ill in your heart, leave it here. There is no room for it within." Occasionally one of the people reached out and touched a warder as if handing over a burden.
When he reached the door, Bannor gave his torch to the Hirebrand. The Hirebrand quenched it by humming a snatch of song and closing his hand over the flame. Then he returned the rod to Bannor, and the Bloodguard entered the enclosure with Covenant behind him.
Covenant found himself on a balcony circling the inside of an enormous cavity. It held no lights, but illumination streamed into it from all the open doors, and there were six more balconies above the one on which Covenant stood, all accessed by many open doors. He could see clearly. The balconies stood in vertical tiers, and below them, more than a hundred feet down, was the fiat bottom of the cavity. A dais occupied one side, but the rest of the bottom was full of people. The balconies also were full, but relatively uncrowded; everyone had a full view of the dais below.
Sudden dizziness beat out of the air at Covenant's head. He clutched at the chest-high railing, braced his laboring heart against it. Revelstone seemed full of vertigoes; everywhere he went, he had to contend with cliffs, gulfs, abysms. But the rail was reassuring
granite. Hugging it, he fought down his fear, looked up to take his eyes away from the enclosure bottom.
He was dimly surprised to find that the cavity was not open to the sky; it ended in a vaulted dome several hundred feet above the highest balcony. The details of the ceiling were obscure, but he thought he could make out figures carved in the stone, giant forms vaguely dancing.
Then the light began to fail. One by one, the doors were being shut; as they closed, darkness filled the cavity like recreated night. Soon the enclosure was sealed free of light, and into the void the soft moving noises and breathing of the people spread like a restless spirit. The blackness seemed to isolate Covenant. He felt as anchorless as if he had been cast adrift in deep space, and the massive stone of the Keep impended over him as if its sheer brute tonnage bore personally on the back of his neck. Involuntarily, he leaned toward Bannor, touched the solid Bloodguard with his shoulder.
Then a flame flared up on the dais-two flames, a lillianrill torch and a pot of graveling. Their lights were tiny in the huge cavity, but they revealed Birinair and Tohrm standing on either side of the dais, holding their respective fires. Behind each Hearthrall were two blue-robed figures-Lord Mhoram with an ancient woman on his arm behind Birinair, and a woman and an old man behind Tohrm. And between these two groups stood another man robed in blue. His erect carriage denied the age of his white hair and beard. Intuitively, Covenant guessed, That's him-High Lord Prothall.
The man raised his staff and struck its metal three times on the stone dais. He held his head high as he spoke, but his voice remembered that he was old. In spite of bold carriage and upright spirit, there was a rheumy ache of age in his tone as he said, "This is the Vespers of Lord's Keep-ancient Revelstone, Giant-wrought bourne of all that we believe. Be welcome, strong heart and weak, light and dark, blood and bone and thew and mind and soul, for good and all. Set Peace about you and within you. This time is consecrate to the services of the Earth."
His companions responded, "Let there be healing and hope, heart and home, for the Land, and for all people in the services of the Earth-for you before us, you direct participants in Earthpower and Lore, lillianrill and rhadhamaerl, learners, Lorewardens, and warriors-and for you above us, you people and daily carers of the hearth and harvest of life and for you among us, you Giants, Bloodguard, strangers-and for you absent Ranyhyn and Ramen and Stonedownors and Woodhelvennin, all brothers and sisters. of the common troth. We are the Lords of the Land. Be welcome and true."
Then the Lords sang into the darkness of the sacred enclosure. The Hearthrall fires were small in the huge, high, thronged sanctuary-small, and yet for all their smallness distinct, cynosural, like uncorrupt courage. And in that light the Lords sang their hymn.
Seven Wards of ancient Lore
For Land's protection, wall and door:
And one High Lord to wield the Law
To- keep all uncorrupt Earth's Power's core.
Seven Words for ill's despite
Banes for evil's dooming wight:
And one pure Lord to hold the Staff
To bar the Land from Foul's betraying sight.
Seven hells for failed faith,
For Land's betrayers, man and wraith:
And one brave Lord to deal the doom
To keep the blacking blight from Beauty's bloom.
As the echo of their voices faded, High Lord Prothall spoke again. "We are the new preservers of the Land-votaries and handservants of the Earthpower; sworn and dedicated to the retrieval of Kevin's Lore, and to the healing of the Earth from all that is barren or unnatural, ravaged, foundationless, or perverse. And sworn and dedicated as well, in equal balance with all other consecrations and promises sworn despite any urging of the importunate self-to the Oath of Peace. For serenity is the only promise we can give that we will not desecrate the Land again."
The people standing before the dais replied in unison, "We will not redesecrate the Land, though the effort of self mastery wither us on the vine of our lives. Nor will we rest until the shadow of our former folly is lifted from the Land's heart, and the darkness is whelmed in growth and life."
And Prothall returned, "But there is no withering in the service of the Land. Service enables service, just as servility perpetuates debasement. We may go from knowledge to knowledge, and to still braver knowledge, if courage holds, and commitment holds, and wisdom does not fall under the shadow. We are the new preservers of the Land-votaries and handservants to the Earthpower.
For we will not rest-
   not turn aside,
   lose faith,
   or fail-
until the Gray flows Blue,
and Rill and Maerl are as new and clean
   as ancient Llurallin."
To this the entire assembly responded by singing the same words, line by line, after the High Lord; and the massed communal voice reverberated in the sacred enclosure as if his rheumy tone had tapped some pent, subterranean passion. While the mighty sound lasted, Prothall bowed his head in humility.
But when it was over, he threw back his head and flung his arms wide as if baring his breast to a denunciation. "Ah, my friends!" he cried. "Handservants, votaries of the Land-why have we so failed to comprehend Kevin's Lore? Which of us has in any way advanced the knowledge of our predecessors? We hold the First Ward in our hands-we read the script, and is much we understand the words-and
yet we do not penetrate the secrets. Some failure in us, some false inflection, some mistaken action, some base alloy in our intention, prevents. I do not doubt that our purpose is pure-it is High Lord Kevin's purpose-and before him Loric's and Damelon's and Heartthew's-but wiser, for we will never lift our hands against the Land in mad despair. But what, then? Where are we wrong, that we cannot grasp what is given to us?"
For a moment after his voice faltered and fell, the sanctuary was silent, and the void throbbed like weeping, as if in his words the people recognized themselves, recognized the failure he described as their own. But then a new voice arose. Saltheart Foamfollower said boldly, "My Lord, we have not reached our end. True, the work of our lifetime has been to comprehend and consolidate the gains of our forebearers. But our labor will open the doors of the future. Our children and their children will gain because we have not lost heart, for faith and courage are the greatest gift that we can give to our descendants. And the Land holds mysteries of which we know nothing mysteries of hope as well as of peril. Be of good heart, Rockbrothers. Your faith is precious above all things:"
But you don't have time! Covenant groaned. Faith! Children! Foul is going to destroy you. Within him, his conception of the Lords whirled, altered. They were not superior beings, fate-shapers; they were mortals like himself, familiar with impotence. Foul would reave them
For an instant, he released the railing as if he meant to cry out his message of doom to the gathered people. But at once vertigo broke through his resistance, pounced at him out of the void. Reeling, he stumbled against the rail, then fell back to clutch at Bannor's shoulder.
that the uttermost limit of their span of days upon the Land
He would have to read them their death warrant.
"Get me out of here," he breathed hoarsely. "I can't stand it."
Bannor held him, guided him. Abruptly, a door opened into the brilliance of the outer corridor. Covenant half fell through the doorway. Without a word,. Bannor refit his torch at one of the flaming brands set into the wall. Then he took Covenant's arm to support him.
Covenant threw off his hand. "Don't touch me," he panted inchoately. "Can't you see I'm sick?"
No flicker of expression shaded Bannor's fiat countenance. Dispassionately, he turned and led Covenant away from the sacred enclosure.
Covenant followed, bent forward and holding his stomach as if he were nauseated. -that the uttermost limit- How could he help them? He could not even help himself. In confusion and heart distress, he shambled back to his room in the tower, stood dumbly in the chamber while Bannor replaced his torch and left, closing the door like a judgment behind him. Then he gripped his temples as if his mind were being torn in two.
None of this is happening, he moaned. How are they doing this to me?
Reeling inwardly, he turned to look at the arras as if it might contain some answer. But it only aggravated his distress, incensed him like a sudden affront. Bloody hell! Berek, he groaned. Do you think it's that easy? Do you think that ordinary human despair is enough, that if you just feel bad enough something cosmic or at least miraculous is bound to come along and rescue you? Damn you! he's going to destroy them! You're just another leper outcast unclean, and you don't even know it!
His fingers curled like feral claws, and he sprang forward, ripping at the arms as if he were trying to rend a black lie off the stone of the world. The heavy fabric refused to tear in his half-unfingered grasp, but he got it down from the wall. Throwing open the balcony, he wrestled the arras out into the crimson tainted night and heaved it over the railing. It fell like a dead leaf of winter.
I am not Berek!
Panting at his effort, he returned to the room, slammed the partition shut against the bloody light.
He threw off his robe, put on his own underwear, then extinguished the fires and climbed into bed. But the soft, clean touch of the sheets on his skin gave him no consolation.

Fourteen: The Council of Lords


HE awoke in a dull haze which felt like the presage of some thunderhead, some black boil and white fire blaring. Mechanically he went through the motions of readying himself for the Council-washed, inspected himself, dressed in his own clothes, shaved again. When Bannor brought him a tray of food, he ate as if the provender were made of dust and gravel. Then he slipped Atiaran's knife into his belt, gripped the staff of Baradakas in his left hand, and sat down facing the door to await the summons.
Finally, Bannor returned to tell him that the time had come. For a few moments, Covenant sat still, holding the Bloodguard in his half-unseeing gaze, and wondering where he could get the courage to go on with this dream. He felt that his face was twisted, but he could not be sure.
-that the uttermost limit
Get it over with.
He touched the hard, hidden metal of his ring to steady himself, then levered his reluctant bones erect. Glaring at the doorway as if it were a threshold into peril, he lumbered through it and started down the corridor. At Bannor's commanding back, he moved out of the tower, across the courtyard, then inward and down through the raveled and curiously wrought passages of Revelstone.
Eventually they came through bright-lit halls deep in the mountain to a pair of arching wooden doors. These were closed, sentried by Bloodguard; and lining both walls were stone chairs, some man-sized and others large enough for Giants. Bannor nodded to the sentries. One of them pulled open a door while the other motioned for Bannor and Covenant to enter. Bannor guided Covenant into the council chamber of the Lords.
The Close was a huge, sunken, circular room with a ceiling high and groined, and tiers of seats set around three quarters of the space. The door through which Covenant entered was nearly level with the highest seats, as were the only two other doors-both of them small-at the opposite side of the chamber. Below the lowest tier of seats were three levels: on the first, several feet below the gallery, stood a curved stone table, three-quarters round, with its gap toward the large doors and many chairs around its outer edge; below this, contained within the C of the table, was the flat floor of the Close; and finally, in the center of the floor, lay a broad, round pit of graveling. The yellow glow of the fire-stones was supported by four huge lillianrill torches, burning without smoke or consumption in their sockets around the upper wall.
As Bannor took him down the steps toward the open end of the table, Covenant observed the people in the chamber. Saltheart Foamfollower lounged nearby at the table in a massive stone chair; he watched Covenant's progress down the steps and grinned a welcome for his former passenger. Beyond him, the only people at the table were the Lords. Directly opposite Covenant, at the head of the table, sat High Lord Prothall. His staff lay on the stone before dim. An ancient man and woman were several feet away on either side of him; an equal distance from the woman on her left was Lord Mhoram; and opposite Mhoram, down the table from the old man, sat a middle-aged woman. Four Bloodguard had positioned themselves behind each of the Lords.
There were only four other people in the Close. Beyond the High Lord near the top of the gallery sat the Hearthralls, Birinair and Tohrm, side by side as if they complemented each other. And just behind them were two more men, one a warrior with a double black diagonal on his breastplate, and the other Tuvor, First Mark of the Bloodguard. With so few people in it, the Close seemed large, hollow, and cryptic.
Bannor steered Covenant to the lone chair below the level of the Lords' table and across the pit of graveling from the High Lord. Covenant seated himself stiffly and looked around. He felt that he was uncomfortably far from the Lords; he feared he would have to shout his message. So he was surprised when Prothall stood and said softly, "Thomas Covenant, be welcome to the Council of Lords." His rheumy voice reached Covenant as clearly as if they had been standing side by side.
Covenant did not know how to respond; uncertainly, he touched his right fist to his chest, then extended his arm with his palm open and forward. As his senses adjusted to the Close, he began to perceive the presence, the emanating personality and adjudication, of the Lords. They gave him an impression of stern vows gladly kept, of wide-ranging and yet singleminded devotion. Prothall stood alone, meeting Covenant's gaze. The High Lord's appearance of white age was modified by the stiffness of his beard and the erectness of his carriage; clearly, he was strong yet. But his eyes were worn with the experience of an asceticism, an abnegation, carried so far that it seemed to abrogate his flesh-as if he had been old for so long that now only the power to which he devoted himself preserved him from decrepitude.
The two Lords who flanked him were not so preserved. They had dull, age-marked skin and wispy hair; and they bowed at the table as if striving against the antiquity of their bones to distinguish between meditation and sleep. Lord Mhoram Covenant already knew, though now Mhoram appeared more incisive and dangerous, as if the companionship of his fellow Lords whetted his capacities. But the fifth Lord Covenant did not know; she sat squarely and factually at the table, with her blunt, forthright face fixed on him like a defiance.
"Let me make introduction before we begin," the High Lord murmured. "I am Prothall son of Dwillian, High Lord by the choice of the Council. At my right are Variol Tamarantha-mate and Pentil-son, once High Lord"-as he said this, the two ancient Lords raised their time-latticed faces and smiled privately at each other-"and Osondrea daughter of Sondrea. At my left, Tamarantha Variol-mate and Enesta-daughter, and Mhoram son of Variol. You know the Seareach Giant, Saltheart Foamfollower, and have met the Hearthralls of Lord's Keep. Behind me also are Tuvor, First Mark of the Bloodguard, and Garth, Warmark of the Warward of Lord's Keep. All have the right of presence at the Council of Lords. Do you protest?"
Protest? Covenant shook his head dumbly.
"Then we shall begin. It is our custom to honor those who come before us. How may we honor you?"
Again, Covenant shook his head. I don't want any honor. I made that mistake once already.
After an inquiring pause, the High Lord said, "Very well." Turning toward the Giant, he raised his voice. "Hail and welcome, Giant of Seareach, Saltheart Foamfollower, Rockbrother and inheritor of Land's loyalty. The Unhomed are a blessing to the Land.
Stone and Sea are deep in life.
Welcome whole or hurt, in boon or bane-ask or give. To any requiring name we will not fail while we have life or power to meet the need. I am High Lord Prothall; I speak in the presence of Revelstone itself."
Foamfollower stood to return the salutation. "Hail, Lord and Earthfriend. I am Saltheart Foamfollower, legate from the Giants of Seareach to the Council of Lords. The truth of my people is in my mouth, and I hear the approval of the ancient sacred ancestral stone
raw Earth rockpure friendship a handmark of allegiance and fealty in the eternal stone of time.
Now is the time for proof and power of troth. Through Giant Woods and Sarangrave Flat and Andelain, I bear the name of the ancient promises." Then some of the formality dropped from his manner, and he added with a gay glance at Covenant, "And bearing other things as well. My friend Thomas Covenant has promised that a song will be made of my journey." He laughed gently. "I am a Giant of Seareach. Make no short songs for me."
His humor drew a chuckle from Lord Mhoram, and Prothall smiled softly; but Osondrea's dour face seemed incapable of laughter, and neither Variol nor Tamarantha appeared to have heard the Giant. Foamfollower took his seat, and almost at once Osondrea said as if she were impatient, "What is your embassy?"
Foamfollower sat erect in his chair, and his hands stroked the stone of the table intently. "My Lords Stone and Sea! I am a Giant. These matters do not come easily, though easier to me than to any of my kindred-and for that reason I was chosen. But I will endeavor to speak hastily.
"Please understand me. I was given my embassy in a Giantclave lasting ten days. There was no waste of time. When comprehension is needed, all tales must be told in full. Haste is for the hopeless, we say-and hardly a day has passed since I learned that there is truth in sayings. So it is that my embassy contains much that you would not choose to hear at present. You must know the history of my peoples-all the sojourn and the loss which brought us ashore here, all the interactions of our peoples since that age-if you are to hear me. But I will forgo it. We are the Unhomed, adrift in soul and lessened by an unreplenishing seed. We are hungry for our native land. Yet since the time of Damelon Giantfriend we have not surrendered hope, though Soulcrusher himself contrives against us. We have searched the seas, and have waited for the omens to come to pass."
Foamfollower paused to look thoughtfully at Covenant, then went on: "Ah, my Lords, omening is curious. So much is said-and so little made clear. It was not Home that Damelon foretold for us, but rather an end, a resolution, to our loss. Yet that sufficed for us-sufficed.
"Well. One hope we have found for ourselves. When spring came to Seareach, our questing ships returned, and told that at the very limit of their search they came upon an isle that borders the ancient oceans on which we once roamed. The matter is not sure, but our next questers can go directly to this isle and look beyond it for surer signs. Thus across the labyrinth of the seas we unamaze ourselves."
Prothall nodded, and through the perfect acoustics of the Close, Covenant could hear the faint rustle of the High Lord's robe.
With an air of nearing the crux of his embassy, Foamfollower continued, "Yet another hope we received from Damelon Giantfriend, High Lord and Heartthew's son. At the heart of his omening was this word: our exile would end when our seed regained its potency, and the decline of our offspring was reversed. Thus hope is born of hope, for without any foretelling we would gain heart and courage from any increase in our rare, beloved children. And behold! On the night that our ships returned, Wavenhair Haleall, wived to Sparlimb Keelsetter, was taken to her bed and delivered-ah, Stone and Sea, my Lords! It cripples my tongue to tell this without its full measure of long Giantish gratitude. How can there he joy for people who say everything briefly? Proud-wife, clean-limbed Wavenhair gave birth to three sons." No longer able to restrain himself, he broke into a chant full of the brave crash of breakers and the tang of salt.
To his surprise, Covenant saw that Lord Osondrea was smiling, and her eyes caught the golden glow of the graveling damply-eloquent witness to the gladness of the Giant's news.
But Foamfollower abruptly stopped himself. With a gesture toward Covenant, he said, "Your pardon you have other matters in your hands. I must bring myself to the bone of my embassy. Ah, my friend," he said to Covenant, "will you still not laugh for me? I must remember that Damelon promised us an end, not a return Home-though I cannot envision any end but Home. It may be that I stand in the gloaming of the Giants."
"Hush, Rockbrother," Lord Tamarantha interrupted. "Do not make evil for your people by uttering such things."
Foamfollower responded with a hearty laugh. "Ah, my thanks, Lord Tamarantha. So the wise old Giants are admonished by young women. My entire people will laugh when I tell them of this."
Tamarantha and Variol exchanged a smile, and returned to their semblance of meditation or dozing.
When he was done laughing, the Giant said, "Well, my Lords. To the bone, then. Stone and Sea! Such haste makes me giddy. I have come to ask the fulfillment of the ancient offers. High Lord Loric Vilesilencer promised that the Lords would give us a gift when our hope was ready-a gift to better the chances of our Homeward way."
"Birinair," said Lord Osondrea.
High in the gallery behind Prothall, old Birinair stood and replied, "Of course. I am not asleep. Not as old as I look, you know. I hear you."
With a broad grin, Foamfollower called, "Hail, Birinair! Hearthrall of Lord's Keep and Hirebrand of the lillianrill. We are old friends, Giants and lillianrill."
"No need to shout," Birinair returned. "I hear you. Old friends from the time of High Lord Damelon. Never otherwise."
"Birinair," Osondrea cut in, "does your lore recall the gift promised by Loric to the Giants?"
"Gift? Why not? Nothing amiss with my memory. Where is that whelp my apprentice? Of course. Lorliarill. Gildenlode, they call it. There. Keels and rudders for ships. True course-never becalmed. And
strong as stone," he said to Tohrm, "you grinning rhadhamaerl to the contrary. I remember."
"Can you accomplish this?" Osondrea asked quietly.
"Accomplish?" Birinair echoed, apparently puzzled.
"Can you make Gildenlode keels and rudders for the Giants? Has that lore been lost?" Turning to Foamfollower, Lord Osondrea asked, "How many ships will you need?"
With a glance at Birinair's upright dignity, Foamfollower contained his humor, and replied simply, "Seven. Perhaps five."
"Can this be done?" Osondrea asked Birinair again, distinctly but without irritation. Covenant's blank gaze followed from speaker to speaker as if they were talking in a foreign language.
The Hearthrall pulled a small tablet and stylus from his robe and began to calculate, muttering to himself. The scrape of his stylus could be heard throughout the Close until he raised his head and said stiffly, "The lore remains. But not easily. The best we can do. Of course. And time-it will need time. Bodach glas, it will need time."
"How much time?"
"The best we can do. If we are left alone. Not my fault. I did not lose all the proudest lore of the lillianrill. Forty years." In a sudden whisper, he added to Foamfollower, "I am sorry."
"Forty years?" Foamfollower laughed gently. "Ah, bravely said, Birinair, my friend. Forty years? That does not seem a long time to me." Turning to High Lord Prothall, he said, "My people cannot thank you. Even in Giantish, there are no words long enough. "Three millenia of our loyalty have not been enough 1v repay seven Gildenlode keels and rudders."
"No," protested Prothall. "Seventy times seven Gildenlode gifts are nothing compared to the great headship of the Seareach Giants. Only the thought
we have aided your return Home can fill the emptiness your departure will leave. And our help is fourty years distant. But we will begin at once, and it
may be that some new understanding of Kevin's Lore will shorten the time."
Echoing, "At once," Birinair reseated himself.
Forty years? Covenant breathed. You don't have forty years.
Then Osondrea said, "Done?" She looked first at Foamfollower, then at High Lord Prothall. When they both nodded to her, she turned on Covenant and said, "Then let us get to the matter of this Thomas Covenant." Her voice seemed to whet the atmosphere like a distant thunderclap.
Smiling to ameliorate Osondrea's forthrightness, Mhoram said, "A stranger called the Unbeliever."
"And for good reason," Foamfollower added.
The Giant's words rang an alarm in Covenant's clouded trepidations, and he looked sharply at Foamfollower. In the Giant's cavernous eyes and buttressed forehead, he saw the import of the comment. As clearly as if he were pleading outright, Foamfollower said, Acknowledge the white gold and use it to aid the Land. Impossible, Covenant replied. The backs of his eyes felt hot with helplessness and belligerence, but his face was as stiff as a marble slab.
Abruptly, Lord Osondrea demanded, "The tapestry from your room was found. Why did you cast it down?"
Without looking at her, Covenant answered, "It offended me."
"Offended?" Her voice quivered with disbelief and indignation.
"Osondrea," Prothall admonished gently. "He is a stranger."
She kept the defiance of her face on Covenant, but fell silent. For a moment, no one moved or spoke; Covenant received the unsettling impression that the Lords were debating mentally with each other about how to treat him. Then Mhoram stood, walked around the end of the stone table, and moved back inside the circle until he was again opposite Osondrea. There he seated himself on the edge of the table with his staff across his lap, and fixed his eyes down on Covenant.
Covenant felt more exposed than ever to Mhoram's scrutiny. At the same time, he sensed that Bannor had stepped closer to him, as if anticipating an attack on Mhoram.
Wryly, Lord Mhoram said, "Thomas Covenant, you must pardon our caution. The desecrated moon signifies an evil in the Land which we hardly suspected. Without warning, the sternest test of our age appears in the sky, and we are utterly threatened. Yet we do not prejudge you. You must prove your ill-if ill you are." He looked to Covenant for some response, some acknowledgment, but Covenant only stared back emptily. With a slight shrug, the Lord went on, "Now. Perhaps it would be well if you began with your message."
Covenant winced, ducked his head like a man harried by vultures. He did not want to recite that message, did not want to remember Kevin's Watch, Mithil Stonedown, anything. His guts ached at visions of vertigo. Everything was impossible. How could he retain his outraged sanity if he thought about such things?
But Foul's message had a power of compulsion. He had borne it like a wound in his mind too long to repudiate it now. Before he could muster any defense, it came over him like a convulsion. In a tone of irremediable contempt, he said, "These are the words of Lord Foul the Despiser.
"Say to the Council of Lords, and to, the High Lord Prothall son of Dwillian, that the uttermost limit of their span of days upon the Land is seven times seven years from this present time. Before the end of those days are numbered, I will have the command of fife and death in my hand. And as a token that what I say is the one word of truth, tell them this: Drool Rockworm, Cavewight of Mount Thunder, has found !he Staff of Law, which was lost ten times a hundred years ago by Kevin at the Ritual of Desecration. Say to them that the task appointed to their generation is ors regain the Staff. Without it, they will not be able to gist me for seven years, and my complete victory
will be achieved six times seven years earlier than it would be else.
" `As for you, groveler: do not fail with this message. If you do not bring it before the Council, then every human in the Land will be dead before ten seasons have passed. You do not understand-but I tell you Drool Rockworm has the Staff, and that is a cause for terror. He will be enthroned at Lord's Keep in two years if the message fails. Already, the Cavewights are marching to his call; and wolves, and ur-viles of the Demondim, answer the power of the Staff. But war is not the worst peril. Drool delves ever deeper into the dark roots of Mount Thunder-Gravin Threndor, Peak of the Fire Lions. And there are banes buried in the deeps of the Earth too potent and terrible for any mortal to control. They would make of the universe a hell forever. But such a bane Drool seeks. He searches for the Illearth Stone. If he becomes its master, there will be woe for low and high alike until Time itself falls.
"'Do not fail with my message, groveler. You have met Drool. Do you relish dying in his hands?"' Covenant's heart lurched with the force of his loathing for the words, the tone. But he was not done. " `One word more, a final caution. Do not forget whom to fear at the last. I have had to be content with killing and torment. But now my plans are laid, and I have begun. I shall not rest until I have eradicated hope from the Earth. Think on that, and be dismayed!"'
As he finished, he heard fear and abhorrence flare in the Close as if ignited by his involuntary peroration. Hellfire hellfire! he moaned, trying to clear his gaze of the darkness from which Foul's contempt had sprung. Unclean!
Prothall's head was bowed, and he clenched his staff as if he were trying to wring courage from it. Behind him, Tuvor and Warmark Garth stood in attitudes of martial readiness. Oddly, Variol and Tamarantha doddered in their seats as if dozing, unaware of what had been said. But Osondrea gaped at Covenant as if he had stabbed her in the heart. Opposite her, Mhoram stood erect, head high and eyes closed, with his staff braced hard against the floor; and where his metal met the stone, a hot blue flame burned. Foamfollower hunched in his seat; his huge hands clutched a stone chair. His shoulders quivered, and suddenly the chair snapped.
At the noise, Osondrea covered her face with her hands, gave one stricken cry, "Melenkurion abatha!" The next instant, she dropped her hands and resumed her stony, amazed stare at Covenant. And he shouted, Unclean! as if he were agreeing with her.
"Laugh, Covenant," Foamfollower whispered hoarsely. "You have told us the end of all things. Now help us. Laugh."
Covenant replied dully, "You laugh. `Joy is in the ears that hear.' I can't do it."
To his astonishment, Foamfollower did laugh. He lifted his head and made a strangled, garish noise in his throat that sounded like sobbing; but in a moment the sound loosened, clarified, slowly took on the tone of indomitable humor. The terrible exertion appalled Covenant.
As Foamfollower laughed, the first shock of dismay passed from the Council. Gradually, Prothall raised his head. "The Unhomed are a blessing to the Land," he murmured. Mhoram sagged, and the fire between his staff and the floor went out. Osondrea shook her head, sighed, passed her hands through her hair. Again, Covenant sensed a kind of mental melding from the Lords; without words, they seemed to join hands, share strength with each other.
Sitting alone and miserable, Covenant waited for them to question him. And as he waited, he struggled to recapture all the refusals on which his survival depended.
Finally, the Lords returned their attention to him. The flesh of Prothall's face seemed to droop with weariness, but his eyes remained steady, resolute. stow, Unbeliever," he said softly. "You must tell us all that has happened to you. We must know how Lord Foul's threats are embodied."
Now, Covenant echoed, twisting in his chair. He could hardly resist a desire to clutch at his ring. Dark memories beat at his ears, trying to break down his defenses. Shortly, everyone in the Close was looking at him. Tossing his words down as if he were discarding flawed bricks, he began.
"I come from-someplace else. I was brought to Kevin's Watch-I don't know how. First I got a look at Drool-then Foul left me on the Watch. They seemed to know each other."
"And the Staff of Law?" Prothall asked.
"Drool had a staff-all carved up, with metal ends like yours. I don't know what it was."
Prothall shrugged the doubt away; and grimly Covenant forced himself to describe without any personal mention of himself, any reference to Lena or Triock or Baradakas, the events of his journey. When he spoke of the murdered Waynhim, Osondrea's breath hissed between her teeth, but the Lords made no other response.
Then, after he mentioned the visit to Soaring Woodhelven of a malicious stranger, possibly a Raver, Mhoram asked intently, "Did the stranger use a name?"
"He said his name was Jehannum."
"Ah. And what was his purpose?"
"How should I know?" Covenant rasped, trying to conceal his falsehood with belligerence. "I don't know any Ravers."
Mhoram nodded noncommittally, and Covenant went on to relate his and Atiaran's progress through Andelain. He avoided gruffly any reference to the wrong which had attacked him through his boots. But when he came to the Celebration of Spring, he faltered.
The Wraiths-! he ached silently. The rage and horror of that night were still in him, still vivid to his raw heart. Covenant, help them! How could I? It's madness! I'm not-I am not Berek.
With an effort that made his throat hurt as if his words were too sharp to pass through it, he said, "The Celebration was attacked by ur-viles. We escaped. Some of the Wraiths were saved by-by one of the Unfettered, Atiaran said. Then the moon turned red.
Then we got to the river and met Foamfollower. Atiaran decided to go back home. How the hell much longer do I have to put up with this?"
Unexpectedly, Lord Tamarantha raised her nodding head. "Who will go?" she asked toward the ceiling of the Close.
"It has not yet been determined that anyone will go," Prothall replied in a gentle voice.
"Nonsense," she sniffed. Tugging at a thin wisp of hair behind her ear, she coaxed her old bones erect. "This is too high a matter for caution. We must act. Of course I trust him. He has a Hirebrand's staff, does he not? What Hirebrand would give a staff without sure reason? And look at it-one end blackened. He has fought with it-at the Celebration, if I do not mistake. Ah, the poor Wraiths. That was ill, ill." Looking across at Variol, she said, "Come. We must prepare."
Variol worked himself to his feet. Taking Tamarantha's arm, he left the Close through one of the doors behind the High Lord.
After a respectful pause for the old Lords, Osondrea leveled her stare at Covenant and demanded, "How did you gain that staff?"
"Baradakas-the Hirebrand-gave it to me."
"Why?"
Her tone sparked his anger. He said distinctly, "He wanted to apologize for distrusting me."
"How did you teach him to trust you?"
Damnation) "I passed his bloody test of truth."
Carefully, Lord Mhoram asked, "Unbeliever-why did the Hirebrand of Soaring Woodhelven desire to nest you?"
Again, Covenant felt compelled to lie. "Jehannum made him nervous. He tested everyone."
"Did he also test Atiaran?"
"What do you think?"
"I think," Foamfollower interposed firmly, "that Atiaran Trell-mate of Mithil Stonedown would not require any test of truth to demonstrate her fidelity."
This affirmation produced a pause, during which tie Lords looked at each other as if they had reached an impasse. Then High Lord Prothall said sternly,
"Thomas Covenant, you are a stranger, and we have had no time to learn your ways. But we will not surrender our sense of what is right to you. It is clear that you have spoken falsehood. For the sake of the Land, you must answer our questions. Please tell us why the Hirebrand Baradakas gave to you the test of truth, but not to Atiaran your companion."
"No."
"Then tell us why Atiaran Trell-mate chose not to accompany you here. It is rare for a person born of the Land to stop short of Revelstone."
"No."
"Why do you refuse?"
Covenant glared seething up at his interrogators. They sat above him like judges with the power of outcasting in their hands. He wanted to defend himself with shouts, curses; but the Lords' intent eyes stopped him. He could see no contempt in their faces. They regarded him with anger, fear, disquietude, with offended love for the Land, but no contempt. Very softly, he said, "Don't you understand? I'm trying to get out of telling you an even bigger lie. If you keep pushing me-we'll all suffer."
The High Lord met his irate, supplicating gaze for a moment, then sighed catarrhally, "Very well. You make matters difficult for us. Now we must deliberate. Please leave the Close. We will call for you in a short time."
Covenant stood, turned on his heel, started up the steps toward the big doors. Only the sound .of his boots against the stone marked the silence until he had almost reached the doors. Then he heard Foamfollower say as clearly as if his own heart uttered the words, "Atiaran Trell-mate blamed you for the slaughter of the Wraiths."
He froze, waiting in blank dread for the Giant to continue. But Foamfollower said nothing more. Trembling, Covenant passed through the doors and moved awkwardly to sit in one of the chairs along the wall. His secret felt so fragile within him that he could hardly believe it was still intact.
I am not
When he looked up, he found Bannor standing before him. The Bloodguard's face was devoid of expression, but it did not seem uncontemptuous. Its flat ambiguity appeared capable of any response, and now it implied a judgment of Covenant's weakness, his disease.
Impelled by anger and frustration, Covenant muttered to himself, Keep moving. Survive. "Bannor," he growled, "Mhoram seems to think we should get to know each other. He told me to ask you about the Bloodguard."
Bannor shrugged as if he were impervious to any question.
"Your people-the Haruchai"-Bannor nodded "live up in the mountains. You came to the Land when Kevin was High Lord. How long ago was that?"
"Centuries before the Desecration." The Bloodguard's alien tone seemed to suggest that units of time like years and decades had no significance. "Two thousand years."
Two thousand years. Thinking of the Giants, Covenant said, "That's why there's only five hundred of you left Since you came to the Land you've been dying off."
"The Bloodguard have always numbered five hundred. That is the Vow. The Haruchai-are more." He gave the name a tonal lilt that suited his voice.
"More?"
"They live in the mountains as before."
"Then how do you-You say that as if you haven't been back there for a long time." Again Bannor nodded slightly. "How do you maintain your five hundred here? I haven't seen any-"
Bannor interrupted dispassionately. "When one of the Bloodguard is slain, his body is sent into the mountains through Guards Gap, and another of the Haruchai comes to take his place in the Vow."
Is slain? Covenant wondered. "Haven't you been come since? Don't you visit your- Do you have a
"At one time."
Bannor's tone did not vary, but something in his inflectionlessness made Covenant feel that the question was important. "At one time?" he pursued. "What happened to her?"
"She has been dead."
An instinct warned Covenant, but he went on, spurred by the fascination of Bannor's alien, inflexible solidity. "How how long ago did she die?"
Without a flicker of hesitation, the Bloodguard replied, "Two thousand years."
What! For a long moment, Covenant gaped in astonishment, whispering to himself as if he feared that Bannor could hear him, That's impossible. That's impossible. In an effort to control himself, he blinked dumbly. Two-? What is this?
Yet in spite of his amazement, Bannor's claim carried conviction. That flat tone sounded incapable of dishonesty, of even misrepresentation. It filled Covenant with horror, with nauseated sympathy. In sudden vision he glimpsed the import of Mhoram's description, made by their pledged loyalty ascetic, womanless, and old. Barren-how could there be any limit to a barrenness which had already lasted for two thousand years? "How," he croaked, "how old are you?"
"I came to the Land with the first Haruchai, when Kevin was young in High Lordship. Together we first uttered the Vow of service. Together we called upon the Earthpower to witness our commitment. Now we do not return home until we have been slain."
Two thousand years, Covenant mumbled. Until we have been slain. That's impossible. None of this is happening. In his confusion, he tried to tell himself that what he heard was like the sensitivity of his nerves, further proof of the Land's impossibility. But it did not feel like proof. It moved him as if he had learned that Bannor suffered from a rare form of leprosy. With an effort, he breathed, "Why?"
Flatly, Bannor said, "When we came to the Land, we saw wonders-Giants, Ranyhyn, RevelstoneLords of such power that they declined to wage war with us lest we be destroyed. In answer to our challenge, they gave to the Haruchai gifts so precious-" He paused, appeared to muse for a moment over private memories. "Therefore we swore the Vow. We could not equal that generosity in any other way."
"Is that your answer to death?" Covenant struggled with his sympathy, tried to reduce what Bannor said to manageable proportions. "Is that how things are done in the Land? Whenever you're in trouble you just do the impossible? Like Berek?"
"We have sworn the Vow. The Vow is life. Corruption is death."
"But for two thousand years?" Covenant protested. "Damnation! It isn't even decent. Don't you think you've done enough?"
Without expression, the Bloodguard replied, "You cannot corrupt us."
"Corrupt you? I don't want to corrupt you. You can go on serving those Lords until you wither for all I care. I'm talking about your life, Bannor! How long do you go on serving without just once asking yourself if it's worth it? Pride or at least sanity requires that. Hellfire!" He could trot conceive how even a healthy man remained unsuicidal in the face of so much existence. "It isn't like salad dressing-you can't just spoon it around. You're human. You weren't born to be immortal."
Bannor shrugged impassively. "What does immortality signify? We are the Bloodguard. We know only life or death the Vow or Corruption."
An instant passed before Covenant remembered that Corruption was the Bloodguard name for Lord Foul. "Then he groaned, "Well of course I understand. You live forever because your pure, sinless service is utterly and indomitably unballasted by any weight or dross of mere human weakness. Ah, the advantages of clean Wig,
"We do not know." Bannor's awkward tone echoed strangely "Kevin saved us. How could we guess what eras in his heart? He sent us all into the mountains into the mountains. We questioned, but he gave the order. He charged us by our Vow. We knew no mason to disobey. How could we know? We would have stood by him at the Desecration-stood by or prevented. But he saved us-the Bloodguard. We who swore to preserve his life at any cost."
Saved, Covenant breathed painfully. He could feel the unintended cruelty of Kevin's act. "So now you don't know whether all these years of living are right or wrong," he said distantly. How do you stand it? "Maybe your Vow is mocking you."
"There is no accusation which can raise its finger against us," Bannor averred. But for an instant his dispassion sounded a shade less immaculate.
"No, you do all that yourself."
In response, Bannor blinked slowly, as if neither blame nor exculpation carried meaning to the ancient perspective of his devotion.
A moment later, one of the sentries beckoned Covenant toward the Close. Trepidation constricted his heart. His horrified sympathy for Bannor drained his courage; he did not feel able to face the Lords, answer their demands. He climbed to his feet as if he were tottering, then hesitated. When Bannor motioned him forward, he said in a rush, "Tell me one more thing. If your wife were still alive, would you go to visit her and then come back here? Could you-" He faltered. "Could you bear it?"
The Bloodguard met his imploring gaze squarely, but thoughts seemed to pass like shadows behind his countenance before he said softly, "No."
Breathing heavily as if he were nauseated, Covenant shambled through the door and down the steps toward the yellow immolation of the graveling pit.
Prothall, Mhoram, and Osondrea, Foamfollower, the four Bloodguard, the four spectators-all remained as he had left them. Under the ominous expectancy of their eyes, he seated himself in the lone chair below the Lords' table. He was shivering as if the fire-stones radiated cold rather than heat.
When the High Lord spoke, the age rattle in his voice seemed worse than before. "Thomas Covenant, if we have treated you wrongly we will beg your pardon at the proper time. But we must resolve our doubt of you. You have concealed much that we must know. However, on one matter we have been able to agree. We see your presence in the Land in this way.
"While delving under Mount Thunder, Drool Rockworm found the lost Staff of Law. Without aid, he would require many years to master it. But Lord Foul the Despiser learned of Drool's discovery, and agreed for his own purposes to teach the Cavewight the uses of the Staff. Clearly he did not wrest the Staff from Drool. Perhaps he was too weak. Or perhaps he feared to use a tool not made for his hand. Or perhaps he has some terrible purpose which we do not grasp. But again it is clear that Lord Foul induced Drool to use the Staff to summon you to the Land-only the Staff of Law has such might. And Drool could not have conceived or executed that task without deep-lored aid. You were brought to the Land at Lord Foul's behest. We can only pray that there were other powers at work as well."
"But that does not tell us why," said Mhoram intently. "If the carrying of messages were Lord Foul's only purpose, he had no need of someone from beyond the Land-and no need to protect you from Drool, as he did when he bore you to Kevin's Watch, and as I believe he attempted to do by sending his Raver to turn you from your path toward Andelain. No, you are our sole guide to the Despiser's true intent. Why did he call someone from beyond the Land? And why you? In what way do you serve his designs?"
Panting, Covenant locked his jaws and said nothing.
"Let me put the matter another way," Prothall urged. "The tale you have told us contains evidence of truth. Few living know that the Ravers were at one time named Herein, Sheol, and Jehannum. And we know that one of the Unfettered has been studying the Wraiths of Andelain for many years."
Unwillingly, Covenant remembered the hopeless courage of the animals that had helped the Unfettered One to save him in Andelain. They had hurled themselves into their own slaughter with desperate and futile ferocity. He gritted his teeth, tried to close his ears to the memory of their dying.
Prothall went on without a pause, "And we know that the lomillialor test of truth is sure-if the one tested does not surpass the tester."
"But the Despiser also knows," snapped Osondrea. "He could know that an Unfettered One lived and studied in Andelain. He could have prepared this tale and taught it to you. If he did," she enunciated darkly, "then the matters on which you have refused to speak are precisely those on which your story would fail. Why did the Hirebrand of Soaring Woodhelven test you? How was the testing done? Who have you battled with that staff? What instinct turned Atiaran Trell-mate against you? You fear to reply because then we will see the Despiser's handiwork."
Authoritatively, High Lord Prothall rattled, "Thomas Covenant, you must give us some token that your tale is true."
"Token?" Covenant groaned.
"Give us proof that we should trust you. You have uttered a doom upon our lives. That we believe. But perhaps it is your purpose to lead us from the true defense of the Land. Give us some token, Unbeliever."
Through his quavering, Covenant felt the impenetrable circumstance of his dream clamp shut on him, deny every desire for hope or independence. He climbed to his feet, strove to meet the crisis erect. As a last resort, he grated to Foamfollower, "Tell them. Atiaran blamed herself for what happened to the Celebration. Because she ignored the warnings. Tell them."
He burned at Foamfollower, willing the Giant to support his last chance for autonomy, and after a grave moment the Giant said, "My friend Thomas Covenant speaks truth, in his way. Atiaran Trell-mate believed the worst of herself."
"Nevertheless!" Osondrea snapped. "Perhaps she blamed herself for guiding him to the Celebration for enabling- Her pain does not approve him." And Prothall insisted in a low voice, "Your token, Covenant. The necessity for judgment is upon us. You must choose between the Land and the Land's Despiser."
Covenant, help them!
"No!" he gasped hoarsely, whirling to face the High Lord. "It wasn't my fault. Don't you see that this is just what Foul wants you to do?"
Prothall stood, braced his weight on his staff. His stature seemed to expand in power as he spoke. "No, I do not see. You are closed to me. You ask to be trusted, but you refuse to show trustworthiness. No. I demand the token by which you refuse us. I am Prothall son of Dwillian, High Lord by the choice of the Council. I demand."
For one long instant, Covenant remained suspended in decision. His eyes fell to the graveling pit. Covenant, help them! With a groan, he remembered how much Atiaran had paid to place him where he stood now. Her pain does not approve. In counterpoint he heard Bannor saying, Two thousand years. Life or death. We do not know. But the face he saw in the fire-stones was his wife's. Joan! he cried. Was one sick body more important than everything?
He tore open his shirt as if he were trying to bare his heart. From the patch of clingor on his chest, be snatched his wedding band, jammed it onto his ring finger, raised his left fist like a defiance. But he was not defiant. "I can't use it!" he shouted lornly, as if the ring were still a symbol of marriage, not a talisman of wild magic. "I'm a leper!"
Astonishment rang in the Close, clanging changes m the air. The Hearthralls and Garth were stunned. Prothall shook his head as if he were trying to wake up for the first time in his life. Intuitive comprehension broke like a bow wave on Mhoram's face, and he mapped to his feet in stiff attention. Grinning gratefully, Foamfollower stood as well. Lord Osondrea also joined Mhoram, but there was no relief in her eyes. Covenant could see her shouldering her way through a throng of confusions to the crux of the situation- Could see her thinking, Save or damn, save or damn. She alone among the Lords appeared to realize that teen this token did not suffice.
Finally the High Lord mastered himself. "Now at list we know how to honor you," he breathed. "Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold Wider, be welcome and true. Forgive us, for we did not know. Yours is the wild magic that destroys peace. And power is at all times a dreadful thing." The Lords saluted Covenant as if they wished to both invoke and ward against him, then together began to sing:
There is wild magic graven in every rock, contained for white gold to unleash or control gold, rare metal, not born of the Land, nor ruled, limited, subdued by the Law with which the Land was created (for the Land is beautiful, as if it were a strong soul's dream of peace and harmony, and Beauty is not possible without discipline and the Law which gave birth to Time is the Land's Creator's self-control)but keystone rather, pivot, crux for the anarchy out of which Time was made, and with Time Earth, and with Earth those who people it: wild magic restrained in every particle of life, and unleashed or controlled by gold (not born of the Land) because that power is the anchor of the arch of life that spans and masters Time: and white-white gold, not ebon, ichor, incarnadine, viridian because white is the hue of bone: structure of flesh, discipline of life.
This power is a paradox, because Power does not exist without Law, and wild magic has no Law; and white gold is a paradox, because it speaks for the bone of life, but has no part of the Land. And he who wields white wild magic gold is a paradox for he is everything and nothing,
hero and fool, potent, helpless and with the one word of truth or treachery he will save or damn the Earth because he is mad and sane, cold and passionate, lost and found.
It was an involuted song, curiously harmonized, with no resolving cadences to set the hearers at rest. And in it Covenant could hear the vulture wings of Foul's voice saying, You have might, but you will never know what it is. You will not be able to fight me at the last. As the song ended, he wondered if his struggling served or defied the Despiser's manipulations. He could not tell. But he hated and feared the truth in Foul's words. He cut into the silence which followed the Lords' hymning. "I don't know how to use it. I don't want to know. That's not why I wear it. If you think I'm some kind of personified redemption-it's a lie. I'm a leper."
"Ah, ur-Lord Covenant," Prothall sighed as the Lords and Foamfollower reseated themselves, "let me say again, please forgive us. We understand much now -why you were summoned- why the Hirebrand Baradakas treated you as he did-why Drool Rockworm attempted to ensnare you at the Celebration of Spring. Please understand in turn that knowledge of the ring is necessary to us. Your semblance to Berek Halfhand is not gratuitous. But, sadly, we cannot tell you how to use the white gold. Alas, we know little enough of the Lore we already possess. And I fear that if we held and comprehended all Seven Wards and Words, the wild magic would still be beyond us. Knowledge of white gold has come down ID us through the ancient prophecies-foretellings, as Saltheart Foamfollower has observed, which say much bet clarify little-but we comprehend nothing of the wild magic. Still, the prophecies are clear about your importance. So I name you `ur-Lord,' a sharer of all the matters of the Council until you depart from us. We must trust you."
Pacing back and forth now on the spur of his conflicting needs, Covenant growled, "Baradakas said just about the same thing. By hell! You people terrify me. When I try to be responsible, you pressure me-and when I collapse you You're not asking the right questions. You don't have the vaguest notion of what a leper is, and it doesn't even occur to you to inquire. That's why Foul chose me for this. Because I can't- Damnation! Why don't you ask me about where I come from? I've got to tell you. The world I come from doesn't allow anyone to live except on its own terms. Those terms-those terms contradict yours."
"What are its terms?" the High Lord asked carefully.
"That your world is a dream."
In the startled stillness of the Close, Covenant grimaced, winced as images flashed at him-courthouse columns, an old beggar, the muzzle of the police car. A dream! he panted feverishly. A dream! None of this is happening-!
Then Osondrea shot out, "What? A dream? Do you mean to say that you are dreaming? Do you believe that you are asleep?"
"Yes!" He felt weak with fear; his revelation bereft him of a shield, exposed him to attack. But he could not recant it. He needed it to regain some kind of honesty. "Yes."
"Indeed!" she snapped. "No doubt that explains the slaughter of the Celebration. Tell me, Unbeliever -do you consider that a nightmare, or does your world relish such dreams?"
Before Covenant could retort, Lord Mhoram said, "Enough, sister Osondrea. He torments himself sufficently."
Glaring, she fell silent, and after a moment Prothall said, "It may be that gods have such dreams as this. But we are mortals. We can only resist ill or surrender. Either way, we perish. Were you sent to mock 3 us for this?"
"Mock you?" Covenant could not find the words to respond. He chopped dumbly at the thought with his halfhand. "It's the other way around. He's mocking me." When all the Lords looked at him in incomprehension, he cried abruptly, "I can feel the pulse in my fingertips! But that's impossible. I've got a disease. An incurable disease. I've-I've got to figure out a way to keep from going crazy. Hell and blood! I don't want to lose my mind just because some perfectly decent character in a dream needs something from me that I can't produce."
"Well, that may be." Prothall's voice held a note of sadness and sympathy, as if he were listening to some abrogation or repudiation of sanity from a revered seer. "But we will trust you nonetheless. You are bitter, and bitterness is a sign of concern. I trust that. And what you say also meets the old prophecy. I fear the time is coming when you will be the Land's last hope."
"Don't you understand?" Covenant groaned, unable to silence the ache in his voice. "That's what Foul wants you to think."
"Perhaps," Mhoram said thoughtfully. "Perhaps." Then, as if he had reached a decision, he turned the peril of his gaze straight at Covenant. "Unbeliever, I must ask you if you have resisted Lord Foul. I do not speak of the Celebration. When he bore you from Drool Rockworm to Kevin's Watch-did you oppose him?"
The question made Covenant feel abruptly frail, as if it had snapped a cord of his resistance. "I didn't know how." Wearily, he reseated himself in the loneliness of his chair. "I didn't know what was happening."
"You are ur-Lord now," murmured Mhoram. "There is no more need for you to sit there."
"No need to sit at all," amended Prothall, with sadden briskness. "There is much work to be done. We must think and probe and plan-whatever action we will take in this trial must be chosen quickly. We will meet again tonight. Tuvor, Garth, Birinair, Tohrm -prepare yourselves and those in your command. Bring whatever thoughts of strategy you have to the Council tonight. And tell all the Keep that Thomas Covenant has been named ur-Lord. He is a stranger and a guest. Birinair-begin your work for the Giants at once. Bannor, I think the ur-Lord need no longer stay in the tower." He paused and looked about him, giving everyone a chance to speak. Then he turned and left the Close. Osondrea followed him, and after giving Covenant another formal salute, Mhoram also departed.
Numbly, Covenant moved behind Bannor up through the high passages and stairways until they reached his new quarters. The Bloodguard ushered him into a suite of rooms. They were high-ceilinged, lit by reflected sunlight through several broad windows, abundantly supplied with food and springwine, and unadorned. When Bannor had left, Covenant looked out one of the windows, and found that his rooms were perched in the north wall of Revelstone, with a view of the rough plains and the northwardcurving cliff of the plateau. The sun was overhead, but a bit south of the Keep, so that the windows were in shadow.
He left the window, moved to the tray of food, and ate a light meal. Then he poured out a flask of springwine, which he carried into the bedroom. There he found one orieled window. It had an air of privacy, of peace.
Where did he go from here? He did not need to be self-wise or prophetic to know that he could not remain in Revelstone. He was too vulnerable here.
He sat down in the stone alcove to brood over the Land below and wonder what he had done to himself.

Fifteen: The Great Challenge


THAT night, when Bannor entered the suite to call Thomas Covenant to the evening meeting of the Lords, he found Covenant still sitting within the oriel of his bedroom window. By the light of Bannor's torch, Covenant appeared gaunt and spectral, as if half seen through shadows. The sockets of his eyes were dark with exhausted emotion; his lips were gray, bloodless; and the skin of his forehead had an ashen undertone. He held his arms across his chest as if he were trying to comfort a pain in his heartwatched the plains as if he were waiting for moonrise. Then he noticed the Bloodguard, and his lips pulled back, bared his teeth.
"You still don't trust me," he said in a spent voice.
Bannor shrugged. "We are the Bloodguard. We have no use for white gold."
"No use?"
"It is a knowledge-a weapon. We have no use for weapons."
"No use?" Covenant repeated dully. "How do you defend the Lords without weapons?"
"We"-Bannor paused as if searching the language of the Land for a word to match his thought-"suffice."
Covenant brooded for a moment, then swung himself out of the oriel. Standing in front of Bannor, he said softly, "Bravo." Then he picked up his staff and kit the rooms.
This time, he paid more attention to the route Bannor chose, and did not lose his sense of direction.
Eventually, he might be able to dispense with Bannor's guidance. When they reached the huge wooden doors of the Close, they met Foamfollower and Korik. The Giant greeted Covenant with a salute and a broad grin, but when he spoke his voice was serious. "Stone and Sea, ur-Lord Covenant! I am glad you did not choose to make me wrong. Perhaps I do not comprehend all your dilemma. But I believe you have taken the better risk-for the sake of all the Land."
"You're a fine one to talk," replied Covenant wanly. His sarcasm was a defensive reflex; he had lost so much other armor. "How long have you Giants been lost? I don't think you would know a good risk if it kicked you."
Foamfollower chuckled. "Bravely said, my friend. It may be that the Giants are not good advisers-all our years notwithstanding. Still you have lightened my fear for the Land."
Grimacing uselessly, Covenant went on into the Close.
The council chamber was as brightly lit and acoustically perfect as before, but the number of people in it had changed. Tamarantha and Variol were absent, and scattered through the gallery were a number of spectators rhadhamaerl, lillianrill, warriors, Lorewardens. Bloodguard sat behind Mhoram and Osondrea; and Tuvor, Garth, Birinair, and Tohrm were in their places behind the High Lord.
Foamfollower took his former seat, gesturing Covenant into a chair near him at the Lords' table. Behind them, Bannor and Korik sat down in the lower tier of the gallery. The spectators fell silent almost at once; even the rustle of their clothing grew still. Shortly, everyone was waiting for the High Lord to begin.
Prothall sat as if wandering in thought for some time before he climbed tiredly to his feet. He held himself up by leaning on his staff, and when he spoke his voice rattled agedly in his chest. But he went without omission through the ceremonies of honoring Foamfollower and Covenant. The Giant responded with a gaiety which disguised the effort he made to be concise. But Covenant rejected the formality with a scowl and a shake of his head.
When he was done, Prothall said without meeting the eyes of his fellow Lords, "There is a custom among the new Lords-a custom which began in the days of High Lord Vailant, a hundred years ago. It is this: when a High Lord doubts his ability to meet the needs of the Land, he may come to the Council and surrender his High Lordship. Then any Lord who so chooses may claim the place for himself." With an effort, Prothall continued firmly, "I now surrender my leadership. Rock and root, the trial of these times is too great for me. Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, you are permitted to claim the High Lordship if you wish."
Covenant held Prothall's eyes, trying to measure the High Lord's intentions. But he could find no duplicity in Prothall's offer. Softly, he replied, "You know I don't want it."
"Yet I ask you to accept it. You bear the white gold."
"Forget it," Covenant said. "It isn't that easy."
After a moment, Prothall nodded slowly. "I see." He turned to the other Lords. "Do you claim the High Lordship?"
"You are the High Lord," Mhoram averred. And Osondrea added, "Who else? Do not waste more time in foolishness."
"Very well." Prothall squared his shoulders. "The trial and the doom of this time are on my head. I am High Lord Prothall, and by the consent of the Council my will prevails. Let none fear to follow me, or blame mother if my choices fail."
An involuntary twitch passed across Covenant's face, but he said nothing; and shortly Prothall sat sown, saying, "Now let us consider what we must do.
In silence the Lords communed mentally with each other. Then Osondrea turned to Foamfollower. 'Rockbrother, it is said, `When many matters press you, consider friendship first.' For the sake of your people you should return to Seareach as swiftly
as may be. The Giants must be told all that has transpired here. But I judge that the waterway of Andelain will no longer be safe for you. We will provide an escort to accompany you through Grimmerdhore Forest and the North Plains until you are past Landsdrop and Sarangrave Flat."
"Thank you, my Lords," replied Foamfollower formally, "but that will not be needed. I have given some thought myself to this matter. In their wandering, my people learned a saying from the Bhrathair: `He who waits for the sword to fall upon his neck will surely lose his head.' I believe that the best service which I can do for my people is to assist whatever course you undertake. Please permit me to join you."
High Lord Prothall smiled and bowed his head in acknowledgement. "My heart hoped for this. Be welcome in our trial. Peril or plight, the Giants of Seareach strengthen us, and we cannot sing our gratitude enough. But your people must not be left unwarned. We will send other messengers."
Foamfollower bowed in turn, and then Lord Osondrea resumed by calling on Warmark Garth.
Garth stood and reported, "Lord, I have done as you requested. Furls Fire now burns atop Revelstone. All who see it will warn their folk, and will spread the warning of war south and east and north. By morning, all who live north of the Soulsease and west of Grimmerdhore will be forearmed, and those who live near the river will send runners into the Center Plains. Beyond that, the warning will carry more slowly.
"I have sent scouts in relays toward Grimmerdhore and Andelain. But six days will pass before we receive clear word of the Forest. And though you did not request it, I have begun preparations for a siege. In all, one thousand three hundred of my warriors are now at work. Twenty Eoman remain ready."
"That is well," said Osondrea. "The warning which must be taken to Seareach we entrust to you. Send as many warriors as you deem necessary to ensure the embassy."
Garth bowed and sat down.
"Now." She nodded her head as if to clear it of other considerations. "I have given my time to the study of ur-Lord Covenant's tale of his journey. The presence of white gold explains much. But still many things require thought-southrunning storms, a threewinged bird, an abominable attack on the Wraiths of Andelain, the bloodying of the moon. To my mind, the meaning of these signs is clear."
Abruptly, she slapped the table with her palm as if she needed the sound and the pain to help her I speak. "Drool Rockworm has already found his bane -the Illearth Stone or some other deadly evil. With the Staff of Law, he has might enough to blast the seasons in their course!"
A low groan arose from the gallery, but Prothall and Mhoram did not appear surprised. Still, a dangerous glitter intensified in Mhoram's eyes as he said softly, "Please explain."
"The evidence of power is unmistakable. We know that Drool has the Staff of Law. But the Staff is not a neutral tool. It was carved from the One Tree as a servant of the Earth and the Earth's Law. Yet all that has occurred is unnatural, wrong. Can you conceive the strength of will which could corrupt the Staff even enough to warp one bird? Well, perhaps madness gives Drool that will. Or perhaps the Despiser now controls the Staff. But consider-birthing a three-winged bird is the smallest of these ill feats. At his peak in the former age, Lord Foul did not dare attack the Wraiths. And as for the desecrated noon-only the darkest and most terrible of ancient prophecies bespeak such matters.
"Do you call this proof conclusive that Lord Foul indeed possesses the Staff? But consider-for less exertion than corrupting the moon requires, he could surely stamp us into death. We could not fight such night. And yet he spends himself so-so vainly. Would he employ his strength to so little purpose- attainst the Wraiths first when he could easily destroy us? And if he would, could he corrupt the moon using the Staff of Law-a tool not made for his hand, resisting his mastery at every touch?
"I judge that if Lord Foul controlled the Staff, he would not and perhaps could not do what has been done-not until we were destroyed. But if Drool still holds the Staff, then it alone does not suffice. No Cavewight is large enough to perform such crimes without the power of both Staff and Stone. The Cavewights are weak-willed creatures, as you know. They are easily swayed, easily enslaved. And they have no heaven-challenging lore. Therefore they have always been the fodder of Lord Foul's armies.
"If I judge truly, then the Despiser himself is as much at Drool's mercy as we are. The doom of this time rides on the mad whim of a Cavewight.
"This I conclude because we have not been attacked."
Prothall nodded glumly to Osondrea, and Mhoram took up the line of her reasoning. "So Lord Foul relies upon us to save him and damn ourselves. In some way, he intends that our response to ur-Lord Covenant's message will spring upon ourselves a trap which holds both us and him. He has pretended friendship to Drool to preserve himself until his plans are ripe. And he has taught Drool to use this newfound power in ways which will satisfy the Cavewight's lust for mastery without threatening us directly. Thus he attempts to ensure that we will make trial to wrest the Staff of Law from Drool."
"And therefore," Osondrea barked, "it would be the utterest folly for us to make trial."
"How so?" Mhoram objected. "The message said, `Without it, they will not be able to resist me for seven years.' He foretells a sooner end for us if we do not make the attempt, or if we attempt and fail, than if we succeed."
"What does he gain by such foretellings? What but our immediate deaths? His message is only a lure of false hope to lead us into folly."
But Mhoram replied by quoting, " `Drool Rockworm has the Staff, and that is a cause for terror. He will be enthroned at Lord's Keep in two years if the message fails.' "
"The message has not failed!" Osondrea insisted. "We are forewarned. We can prepare. Drool is mad, and his attacks will be flawed by madness. It may be that we will find his weakness and prevail. By the Seven! Revelstone will never fall while the Bloodguard remain. And the Giants and Ranyhyn will come to our aid." Turning toward the High Lord, she urged, "Prothall, do not follow the lure of this quest. It is chimera. We will fall under the shadow, and the Land will surely die."
"But if we succeed," Mhoram countered, "if we gain the Staff, then our chance is prolonged. Lord Foul's prophecy notwithstanding, we may find enough Earthpower in the Staff to prevail in war. And if we do not, still we will have that much more time to search for other salvations."
"How can we succeed? Drool has both the Staff of Law and the Illearth Stone."
"And is master of neither."
"Master enough! Ask the Wraiths the extent of his might. Ask the moon."
"Ask me," growled Covenant, climbing slowly to his feet. For a moment he hesitated, torn between a fear of Drool and a dread of what would happen to him if the Lords did not go in search of the Staff. He had a vivid apprehension of the malice behind Drool's Laval eyes. But the thought of the Staff decided him. He felt that he had gained an insight into the logic of his dream. The Staff had brought him to the Land; he would need the Staff to escape. "Ask me," he said again. "Don't you think I have a stake in this?"
The Lords did not respond, and Covenant was forced to carry the argument forward himself. In his brooding, he had been able to find only one frail hope. With an effort, he broached the subject. "According to you, Foul chose me. But he talked about me on Kevin's Watch as if I had been chosen by someone else-`my Enemy,' he said. Who was he talking about?"
Thoughtfully, the High Lord .replied, "I do not know. We said earlier that we hoped there were other forces at work in your selection. Perhaps there were. A few of our oldest legends speak of a Creator -the Creator of the Earth-but we know nothing of such a being. We only know that we are mortal, but Lord Foul is not-in some way, he surpasses flesh."
"The Creator," Covenant muttered. "All right." A disturbing memory of the old beggar who had accosted him outside the courthouse flared momentarily. "Why did he choose me?"
Prothall's abnegate eyes did not waver. "Who can say? Perhaps for the very reasons that Lord Foul chooses you."
That paradox angered Covenant, but he went on as if inspired by the contradiction, "Then this Creator-also wanted you to hear Foul's message. Take that into account."
"There!" Osondrea pounced. "There is the lie I sought-the final bait. By raising the hope of unknown help, Lord Foul seeks to ensure that we will accept this mad quest."
Covenant did not look away from the High Lord. He held Prothall's eyes, tried to see beyond the wear of long asceticisms into his mind. But Prothall returned the gaze unflinchingly. The lines at the corners of his eyes seemed etched there by self-abrogation. "Lord Osondrea," he said evenly, "does your study reveal any signs of hope?"
"Signs? Omens?" Her voice sounded reluctant in the Close. "I am not Mhoram. If I were, I would ask Covenant what dreams he has had in the Land. But I prefer practical hopes. I see but one: so little time has been lost. It is in my heart that no other combination of chance and choice could have brought Covenant here so swiftly."
"Very well," Prothall replied. His look, locked with Covenant's, sharpened momentarily, and in it Covenant at last saw that the High Lord had already made his decision. He only listened to the debate to give himself one last chance to find an alternative. Awkwardly, Covenant dropped his eyes, slumped in his chair. How does he do it? he murmured point lessly to himself. Where does all this courage come from?
Am I the only coward-?
A moment later, the High Lord pulled his blue robe about him and rose to his feet. "My friends," he said, his voice thick with rheum, "the time has come for decision. I must choose a course to meet our need. 1f any have thoughts which must be uttered, speak now." No one spoke, and Prothall seemed to draw dignity and stature from the silence. "Hear then the will of Prothall son of Dwillian, High Lord by the choice of the Council-and may the Land forgive me if I mistake or fail. In this moment, I commit the future of the Earth.
"Lord Osondrea, to you and to the Lords Variol and Tamarantha I entrust the defenses of the Land. I charge you-do all which wisdom or vision suggest to preserve the life in our sworn care. Remember that there is always hope while Revelstone stands. But if Revelstone falls, then all the ages and works of the Lords, from Berek Heartthew to our generation, shall come to an end, and the Land will never know the like again.
"Lord Mhoram and I will go in search of Drool Rockworm and the Staff of Law. With us will go the Giant Saltheart Foamfollower, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, as many of the Bloodguard as First Mark Tuvor deems proper to spare from the defense of Revelstone, and one Eoman of the Warward. Thus we will not go blithe or unguarded into doom-but the main might of Lord's Keep will be left for the defense of the Land if we fail.
"Hear and be ready. The Quest departs at first fight.
"High Lord!" protested Garth, leaping to his feet. 'Will you not wait for some word from my scouts? You must brave Grimmerdhore to pass toward Mount Thunder If the Forest is infested by the servants of Drool or the Gray Slayer, you will have little safety until my scouts have found out the movements of the enemy."
"That is true, Warmark," said Prothall. "But how long will we be delayed?"
"Six days, High Lord. Then we will know how much force the crossing of Grimmerdhore requires."
For some time, Mhoram had been sitting with his chin in his hands, staring absently into the graveling pit. But now he roused himself and said, "One hundred Bloodguard. Or every warrior that Revelstone can provide. I have seen it. There are ur-viles in Grimmerdhore-and wolves by the thousands. They hunt in my dreams." His voice seemed to chill the air in the Close like a wind of loss.
But Prothall spoke at once, resisting the spell of Mhoram's words. "No, Garth. We cannot delay. And the peril of Grimmerdhore is too great. Even Drool Rockworm must understand that our best road to Mount Thunder leads through the Forest and along the north of Andelain. No, we will go south-around Andelain, then east through Morinmoss to the Plains of Ra, before moving north to Gravin Threndor. I know-that seems a long way, full of needless leagues, for a Quest which must rue the loss of each day. But this southward way will enable us to gain the help of the Ramen. Thus all the Despiser's olden foes will share in our Quest. And perhaps we will throw Drool out of his reckoning.
"No, my choice is clear. The Quest will depart tomorrow, riding south. That is my word. Let any who doubt speak now."
And- Thomas Covenant, who doubted everything, felt Prothall's resolution and dignity so strongly that he said nothing.
Then Mhoram and Osondrea stood, followed immediately by Foamfollower; and behind them the assembly rushed to its feet. All turned toward High Lord Prothall, and Osondrea lifted up her voice to say, "Melenkurion Skyweir watch over you, High Lord. Melenkurion abatha! Preserve and prevail! Seed and rock, may your purpose flourish. Let no evil blind or ill assail-no fear or faint, no rest or joy or pain, assuage the grief of wrong. Cowardice is inexculpate, corruption unassoiled. Skyweir watch and Earthroot anneal. Melenkurion abatha! Minas mill khabaal!"
Prothall bowed his head, and the gallery and the Lords responded with one unanimous salute, one extending of arms in mute benediction.
Then in slow order the people began to leave the Close. At the same time, Prothall, Mhoram, and Osondrea departed through their private doors.
Once the Lords were gone, Foamfollower joined Covenant, and they moved together up the steps, followed by Bannor and Korik. Outside the Close, Foamfollower hesitated, considering something, then said, "My friend, will you answer a question for me?"
"You think I've got something left to hide?"
"As to that, who knows? The faery Elohim had a saying-`The heart cherishes secrets not worth the telling.' Ah, they were a laughing people. But --'
"No," Covenant cut in. "I've been scrutinized enough." He started away toward his rooms.
"But you have not heard my question."
He turned. "Why should I? You were going to ask what Atiaran had against me."
"No, my friend," replied Foamfollower, laughing softly. "Let your heart cherish that secret to the end of time. My question is this. What dreams have you had since you came to the Land? What did you dream that night in my boat?"
Impulsively, Covenant answered, "A crowd of my people-real people-were spitting blood at me. And one of them said, `There is only one good answer to death.' "
"Only one? What answer is that?"
"Turn your back on it," Covenant snapped as he strode away down the corridor. "Outcast it." FoamFollower's good natured humor echoed in his ears, but he marched on until he could no longer hear the Giant. Then he tried to remember the way to his rooms. With some help from Bannor, he found his suite and shut himself in, only bothering to light me torch before closing the door on the Bloodguard.
He found that in his absence someone had shuttered his windows against the fell light of the moon. Perversely, he yanked one of them open. But the bloodscape hurt his eyes like the stink of a corpse, and he slammed the shutter closed again. Then for a long time before he went to bed he paced the floor, arguing with himself until fatigue overcame him.
When morning neared, and Bannor began shaking him awake, he resisted. He wanted to go on sleeping as if in slumber he could find absolution. Dimly, he remembered that he was about to start on a journey far more dangerous than the one he had just completed, and his tired consciousness moaned in protest.
"Come," said Bannor. "If we delay, we will miss the call of the Ranyhyn."
"Go to hell," Covenant mumbled. "Don't you ever sleep?"
"The Bloodguard do not sleep:"
"What?"
"No Bloodguard has slept since the Haruchai swore their Vow."
With an effort, Covenant pulled himself into a sitting position. He peered blearily at Bannor for a moment, then muttered, "You're already in hell."
The alien flatness of Bannor's voice did not waver as he replied, "You have no reason to mock us."
"Of course not," Covenant growled, climbing out of bed. "Naturally, I'm supposed to enjoy having my integrity judged by someone who doesn't even need sleep."
"We do not judge. We are cautious. The Lords are in our care."
"Like Kevin-who killed himself. And took just about everything else with him." But as he made this retort, he felt suddenly ashamed of himself. In the firelight, he remembered the costliness of the Bloodguard's fidelity. Wincing at the coldness of the stone floor, he said, "Forget it. I talk like that in self defense. Ridicule seems to be-my only answer." Then he hurried away to wash, shave, and get dressed. After a quick meal, he made sure of his knife and staff, and at last nodded his readiness to the Bloodguard.
Bannor led him down to the courtyard of the old Gilden tree. A haze of night still dimmed the air, but the stars were gone, and sunrise was clearly imminent. Unexpectedly, he felt that he was taking part in something larger than himself. The sensation was an odd one, and he tried to reason it away as he followed Bannor through the tunnel, between the huge, knuckled tower gates, and out into the dawn.
There, near the wall a short distance to the right of the gate, was gathered the company of the Quest. The warriors of the Third Eoman sat astride their horses in a semicircle behind Warhaft Quaan, and to their left stood nine Bloodguard led by First Mark Tuvor. Within the semicircle were Prothall, Mhoram, and Saltheart Foamfollower. The Giant carried in his belt a quarterstaff as tall as a man, and wore a blue neckscarf that fluttered ebulliently in the morning breeze. Nearby were three men holding three horses saddled in clingor. Above them all, the face of Revelstone was crowded with people. The dwellers of the mountain city thronged every balcony and terrace, every window. And facing the gathered company was Lord Osondrea. She held her head high as if she defied her responsibility to make her stoop.
Then the sun crested the eastern horizon. It caught the upper rim of the plateau, where burned the blue Same of warning; it moved down the wall until it lifted High Lord's Furl out of the gloaming like the lighting of a torch. Next it revealed the red pennant, and then a new white flag.
Nodding up at the new flag, Bannor said, "That is for you, ur-Lord. The sign of white gold." Then he west to take his place among the Bloodguard.
Silence rested on the company until the sunlight touched the ground, casting its gold glow over the Questers. As soon as the light reached her feet, Osondrea began speaking as if she had been waiting patiently for this moment, and she covered the ache in her heart with a scolding tone. "I am in no mood tae the ceremony, Prothall. Call the Ranyhyn, and go.
The folly of this undertaking will not be made less by delay and brave words. There is nothing more for you to say. I am well suited for my task, and the defense of the Land will not falter while I live. Go-call the Ranyhyn."
Prothall smiled gently, and Mhoram said with a grin, "We are fortunate in you, Osondrea. I could not entrust any other with Variol my father and Tamarantha my mother."
"Taunt me at your peril!" she snapped. "I am in no mood-no mood, do you hear?"
"I hear. You know that I do not taunt you. Sister Osondrea, be careful."
"I am always careful. Now go, before I lose patience altogether."
Prothall nodded to Tuvor; the ten Bloodguard turned and spread out, so that each faced into the rising sun with no one to obscure his view. One at a time, each Bloodguard raised a hand to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle which echoed off the wall of the Keep into the dawn air.
They whistled again, and then a third time, and each call sounded as fierce and lonely as a heart cry. But the last whistle was answered by a distant whinny and a low thunder of mighty hooves. All eyes turned expectantly eastward, squinted into the morning glory. For a long moment, nothing appeared, and the rumble of the earth came disembodied to the company, a mystic manifestation. But then the horses could be seen within the sun's orb, as if they had materialized in skyfire.
Soon the Ranyhyn passed out of the direct line of the sun. There were ten of them-wild and challenging animals. They were great craggy beasts, deepchested, proud-necked, with some of the delicacy of pure-blooded stock and some of the rough angularity of mustangs. They had long flying manes and tails, gaits as straight as plumb lines, eyes full of restless intelligence. Chestnuts, bays, roans, they galloped toward the Bloodguard.
Covenant knew enough about horses to see that the Ranyhyn were as . individual as people, but they
shared one trait: a white star marked the center of each forehead. As they approached, with the dawn burning on their backs, they looked like the Land personified-the essence of health and power.
Nickering and tossing their heads, they halted before the Bloodguard. And the Bloodguard bowed deeply to them. The Ranyhyn stamped their feet and shook their manes as if they were laughing affectionately at a mere human show of respect. After a moment Tuvor spoke to them. "Hail, Ranyhyn! Land-riders and proud-bearers. Sun-flesh and skymane, we are glad that you have heard our call. We must go on a long journey of many days. Will you bear us?"
In response, a few of the horses nodded their heads, and several others pranced in circles like colts. Then they moved forward, each approaching a specific Bloodguard and nuzzling him as if urging him to mount. This the Bloodguard did, though the horses were without saddle or bridle. Riding bareback, the Bloodguard trotted the Ranyhyn in a circle around the company, and arrayed themselves beside the mounted warriors.
Covenant felt that the departure of the company was imminent, and he did not want to miss his chance. Stepping close to Osondrea, he asked, "What does it mean? Where did they come from?"
The Lord turned and answered almost eagerly, as if glad for any distraction, "Of course-you are a stranger. Now, how can I explain such a deep matter briefly? Consider-the Ranyhyn are free, untamed, and their home is in the Plains of Ra. They are tended by the Ramen, but they are never ridden unless they choose a rider for themselves. It is a free choice. And once a Ranyhyn selects a rider, it is faithful to that one though fire and death interdict.
"Few are chosen. Tamarantha is the only living Lord to be blessed with a Ranyhyn mount-Hynaril bears her proudlythough neither Prothall nor Mhoram have yet made the trial. Prothall has been unwilling. But I suspect that one of his reasons for
journeying south is to give Mhoram a chance to be chosen.
"No matter. Since the age of High Lord Kevin, a bond has grown up between the Ranyhyn and the Bloodguard. For many reasons, only some of which I can guess, no Bloodguard has remained unchosen.
"As to the coming here of the Ranyhyn today-that surpasses my explaining. They are creatures of Earthpower. In some way, each Ranyhyn knows when its rider will call-yes, knows, and never fails to answer. Here are Huryn, Brabha, Marny, and others. Ten days ago they heard the call which only reached our ears this morning-and after more than four hundred leagues, they arrive as fresh as the dawn. If we could match them, the Land would not be in such peril."
As she had been speaking, Prothall and Mhoram had mounted their horses, and she finished while walking Covenant toward his mustang. Under the influence of her voice, he went up to the animal without hesitation. But when he put his foot in the stirrup of the clingor saddle he felt a spasm of reluctance. He did not like horses, did not trust them; their strength was too dangerous. He backed away, and found that his hands were trembling.
Osondrea regarded him curiously; but before she could say anything a bustle of surprise ran through the company. When he looked up, Covenant saw three old figures riding forward-the Lords Variol and Tamarantha, and Hearthrall Birinair. Tamarantha sat astride a great roan Ranyhyn mare with laughing eyes.
Bowing toward them from the back of his horse, High Lord Prothall said, "I am glad that you have come. We need your blessing before we depart, just as Osondrea needs your help."
Tamarantha bowed in return, but there was a sly half-smile on her wrinkled lips. She scanned the company briefly. "You have chosen well, Prothall." Then she brought her old eyes back to the High Lord. "But you mistake us. We go with you."
Prothall began to object, but Birinair put in stoutly,
"Of course. What else? A Quest without a Hirebrand, indeed!"
"Birinair," said Prothall reprovingly, "surely our work for the Seareach Giants requires you."
"Requires? Of course. As to that, why," the Hirebrand huffed, "as to that-no. Shames me to say it. I have given all the orders. No. The others are abler. Have been for years."
"Prothall," Tamarantha urged, "do not forbid. We are old-of course we are old. And the way will be long and hard. But this is the great challenge of our time-the only high and bold enterprise in which we will ever be able to share."
"Is the defense of Revelstone then such a little thing?"
Variol jerked up his head as if Prothall's question had been a gibe. "Revelstone remembers we have failed to retrieve any of Kevin's Lore. What possible help can we be here? Osondrea is more than enough. Without this Quest, our lives will be wasted."
"No, my Lords-no. Not wasted," Prothall murmured. With a baffled expression, he looked to Mhoram for support. Smiling crookedly, Mhoram said; "Life is well designed. Men and women grow old so that someone will be wise enough to teach the young. Let them come."
After another moment's hesitation, Prothall .decided. "Come, then. You will teach us all."
Variol smiled up at Tamarantha, and she returned his gaze from the high back of the Ranyhyn. Their faces were full of satisfaction and calm expectancy, which they shared in the silent marriage of their eyes. Watching them, Covenant abruptly snatched up his horse's reins and climbed into the saddle. His heart thudded anxiously, but almost at once the clingor gave him a feeling of security which eased his trepidation. Following the example of Prothall and Mhoram, he slid the staff under his left thigh, where it was held by the clingor. Then he gripped the mustang with his. knees and tried not to fret.
The man who had been holding the horse touched Covenant's knee to get his attention. "Her name is
Dura-Dura Fairflank. Horses are rare in the Land. I have trained her well. She is as good as a Ranyhyn," he boasted, then lowered his eyes as if embarrassed by his exaggeration.
Covenant replied gruffly, "I don't want a Ranyhyn."
The man took this as approval of Dura, and beamed with pleasure. As he moved away, he touched his palms to his forehead and spread his arms wide in salute.
From his new vantage, Covenant surveyed the company. There were no packhorses, but attached to every saddle were bags of provisions and tools, and Birinair had a thick bundle of lillianrill rods behind him. The Bloodguard were unencumbered, but Foamfollower carried his huge sack over his shoulder, and looked ready to travel as fast as any horse.
Shortly, Prothall rose in his stirrups and called out over the company, "My friends, we must depart. The Quest is urgent, and the time of our trial presses upon us. I will not try to stir your hearts with long words, or bind you with awesome oaths. But I give you two charges. Be true to the limit of your strength. And remember the Oath of Peace. We go into danger, and perhaps into war-we will fight if need be. But the Land will not be served by angry bloodshed. Remember the Code:
Do not hurt where holding is enough;
do not wound where hurting is enough;
do not maim where wounding is enough;
and kill not where maiming is enough;
the greatest warrior is one who does not need to kill." Then the High Lord wheeled his mount to face Revelstone. He drew out his staff, swung it three times about his head, and raised it to the sky. From its end, a blue incandescent flame burst. And he cried to the Keep
"Hail, Revelstone.
The entire population of the Keep responded with one mighty, heart-shaking shout:
"Hail!"
That myriad-throated paean sprang across the hills; the dawn air itself seemed to vibrate with praise and salutation. Several of the Ranyhyn nickered joyously. In answer, Covenant clenched his teeth against a sudden thickening in his throat. He felt unworthy.
Then Prothall turned his horse and urged it into a canter down the hillside. Swiftly, the company swung into place around him. Mhoram guided Covenant to a position behind Prothall, ahead of Variol and Tamarantha. Four Bloodguard flanked the Lords on either side, Quaan, Tuvor, and Korik rode ahead of Prothall, and behind came Birinair and the Eoman. With a long, loping stride, Foamfollower pulled abreast of Mhoram and Covenant, where he jogged as easily as if such traveling were natural to him.
Thus the Quest for the Staff of Law left Lord's Keep in the sunlight of a new day.

Sixteen: Blood-Bourne


THOMAS Covenant spent the next three days in one long, acute discovery of saddle soreness. Sitting on thin leather, he felt as if he were riding bareback; the hard, physical fact of Dura's spine threatened to saw him open. His knees felt as if they were being twisted out of joint; his thighs and calves ached and quivered with the strain of gripping his mount-a pain which slowly spread into and up his back; and his peck throbbed from the lash of Dura's sudden lurchings as she crossed the obstacles of the terrain. At times, he remained on her back only because the clingor saddle did not let him fall. And at night his
clenched muscles hurt so badly that he could not sleep without the benefit of diamondraught.
As a result, he noticed little of the passing countryside, or the weather, or the mood of the company. He ignored or rebuffed every effort to draw him into conversation. He was consumed by the painful sensation of being broken in half. Once again, he was forced to recognize the suicidal nature of this dream, of what the subconscious darkness of his mind was doing to him.
But the Giant's diamondraught and the Land's impossible health worked in him regardless of 'his suffering. His flesh grew tougher to meet the demands of Dura's back. And without knowing it he had been improving as a rider. He was learning how to move with instead of resisting his mount. When he woke up after .the third night,. he found that physical hurting no longer dominated him.
By that time, the company had left behind the cultivated region around Revelstone, and had moved out into rough plains. They had camped in the middle of a rude flatland; and when Covenant began to look about him, the terrain that met his eyes was rocky and unpromising.
Nevertheless, the sense of moving forward reasserted itself in him, gave him once again the illusion of safety. Like so many other things, Revelstone was behind him. When Foamfollower addressed him, he was able to respond without violence.
At that, the Giant remarked to Mhoram, "Stone and Sea, my Lord! I believe that Thomas Covenant has chosen to rejoin the living. Surely this is the work of diamondraught. Hail, ur-Lord Covenant. Welcome to our company. Do you know, Lord Mhoram, there is an ancient Giantish tale about a war which was halted by diamondraught? Would you like to hear? I can tell it in half a day."
"Indeed?" Mhoram chuckled. "And will it take only half a day if you tell it on the run, while we ride?"
Foamfollower laughed broadly. "Then I can be done by sunset tomorrow. I, Saltheart Foamfollower, say  "I have heard that tale," High Lord Prothall said.
 "But the teller assured me that diamondraught did not in fact end the conflict. The actual rein was Giantish talk. When the Giants were done asking after the causes of the war, the combatants had been listening
so long that they had forgotten the answer."
"Ali, High Lord," Foamfollower chortled, "you misunderstand. It was the Giants who drank the diamondraught."
Laughter burst from the listening warriors, and Prothall smiled as he turned to mount his horse. Soon the Quest was on its way, and Covenant fell into place beside Mhoram.
Now as he rode, Covenant listened to the traveling noises of the company. The Lords and Bloodguard were almost entirely silent, preoccupied; but over the thud of hooves, he could hear talk and snatches of song from the warriors. In Quaan's leadership, they sounded confident and occasionally eager, as if they looked forward to putting their. years of Sword training to the test.
Sometime later, Lord Mhoram surprised Covenant by saying without preamble, "Ur-Lord, as you know there were questions which the Council did not ask of you. May I ask them now? I should like to know more concerning your world."
"My world." Covenant swallowed roughly. He did not want to talk about it; he had no desire to repeat the ordeal of the Council. "Why?"
Mhoram shrugged. "Because the more I know of you, the better I will know what to expect from you in times of peril. Or because an understanding of your world may teach me to treat you rightly. Or because I have asked the question in simple friendship."
Covenant could hear the candor in Mhoram's voice, and it disarmed his refusals. He owed the Lords and himself some kind of honesty. But that debt was bitter to him, and he could not find any easy way to articulate all the things which needed saying. Instinctively, he began to make a list. We have cancer, heart failure, tuberculosis, multiple sclerosis, birth defects, leprosy-we have alcoholism, venereal disease,
drug addiction, rape, robbery, murder, child beating, genocide-but he could not bear to utter a catalog of woes that might run on forever. After a moment, he stood in his stirrups and gestured out over the ruggedness of the plains.
"You probably see it better than I do-but even I can tell that this is beautiful. It's alive-it's alive the way it should be alive. This kind of grass is yellow and stiff and thin-but I can see that it's healthy. It belongs here, in this kind of soil. By hell! I can even see what time of year this is by looking at the dirt. I can see spring.
"Where I come from we don't see- If you don't know the annual cycles of the plants, you can't tell the difference between spring and summer. If you don't have a-have a standard of comparison, you can't recognize- But the world is beautiful-what's left of it, what we haven't damaged." Images of Haven Farm sprang irrefusably across his mind. He could not restrain the mordancy of his tone as he concluded, "We have beauty, too. We call it `scenery.' "
" `Scenery,' " Mhoram echoed. "The word is strange to me-but I do not like the sound."
Covenant felt oddly shaken, as if he had just looked over his shoulder and found himself standing too close to a precipice. "It means that beauty is something extra," he rasped. "It's nice, but we can live without it."
"Without?" Mhoram's gaze glittered dangerously.
And behind him Foamfollower breathed in astonishment, "Live without beauty? Ah, my friend! How do you resist despair?"
"I don't think we do," Covenant muttered. "Some of us are just stubborn." Then he fell silent. Mhoram asked him no more questions, and he rode on chewing the gristle of his thoughts until High Lord Prothall called a rest halt.
As the day progressed, Covenant's silence seemed slowly to infect the company. The traveling banter and singing of the Eoman faded gradually into stillness; Mhoram watched Covenant curiously askance, but made no effort to renew their conversation; and Prothall looked as night-faced as the Bloodguard. After a time, Covenant guessed the cause of their reticence. Tonight would be the first full of the bloody moon.
A shiver ran through him. That night would be a kind of test of Drool's power. H the Cavewight could maintain his red hold even when the moon was full, then the Lords would have to admit that his might had no discernible limit. And such might would be spawning armies, would almost certainly have already produced marauders to feed Drool's taste for pillage. Then the company would have to fight for passage. Covenant remembered with a shudder his brief meeting with Drool in the cavern of Kiril Threndor. Like his companions, he fell under the pall of what the night might reveal.
Only Variol and Tamarantha seemed untouched by the common mood. She appeared half-asleep, and rode casually, trusting the Ranyhyn to keep her on its back. Her husband sat erect, with a steady hand on his
i reins, but his mouth was slack and his eyes unfocused. I They looked frail; Covenant felt that he could see the brittleness of their bones. But they alone of all the company were blithe against the coming night-blithe or uncomprehending.
The riders camped before dusk on the north side of a rough hill, partially sheltered from the prevailing southwest breeze. The air had turned cold like a revisitation of winter, and the wind carried a chill to the hearts of the travelers. In silence, some of the warriors fed and rubbed down the horses, while others cooked a spare meal over a fire that Birinair coaxed from one of his lillianrill rods and some scrub wood. The Ranyhyn galloped away together to spend the might in some secret play or rite, leaving the horses lobbied and the Bloodguard standing sentinel and the rest of the company huddled in their cloaks mound the fire. As the last of the sunlight scudded tom the air, the breeze stiffened into a steady wind.
Covenant found himself wishing for some of the camaraderie that had begun the day. But he could not supply the lack himself; he had to wait until High Lord Prothall rose to meet the apprehension of the Quest.
Planting his staff firmly, he began to sing the Vespers hymn of Revelstone. Mhoram joined him, followed by Variol and Tamarantha, and soon the whole Eoman was on its feet, adding its many throated voice to the song. There they stood under the stern sky, twenty-five souls singing like witnesses:
Seven hells for failed faith,
For Land's betrayers, man and wraith:
And one brave Lord to deal the doom
To keep the blacking blight from Beauty's bloom.
They raised their voices bravely, and their melody was counterpointed by the tenor roll of Foamfollower's plainsong. When they were done, they reseated themselves and began to talk together in low voices, as if the hymn were all they needed to restore their courage.
Covenant sat staring at his knotted hands. Without taking his eyes off them, he knew when moonrise came; he felt the sudden stiffening around him as the first crimson glow appeared on the horizon. But he gnawed on his lip and did not look up. His companions breathed tensely; a red cast slowly deepened in the heart of the fire; but he clenched his gaze as if he were studying the way his knuckles whitened.
Then he heard Lord Mhoram's agonized whisper, "Melenkurion," and he knew that the moon was full red, stained as if its defilement were complete-as bloody as if the night sky had been cut to the heart. He felt the light touch his face, and his cheek twitched in revulsion.
The next moment, there came a distant wail like a cry of protest. It throbbed like desolation in the chill air. In spite of himself, Covenant looked over the blood-hued plain; for an instant, he expected the company to leap to the relief of that call. But no one moved. The cry must have come from some animal. Glancing briefly at the full violated moon, he changed his grip and lowered his eyes again.
When his gaze reached his fingers, he saw in horror
that the moonlight gave his ring a reddish cast. The metal looked as if it had been dipped in blood. Its inner silver struggled to show through the crimson, but the bloodlight seemed to be soaking inward, slowly quenching, perverting the white gold.
He understood instinctively. For one staggering heartbeat, he sat still, howled silent and futile warnings at his unsuspecting self. Then he sprang to his feet, erect and rigid as if he had been yanked upright by the moon-arms tight at his sides, fists clenched.
Behind him, Bannor said, "Do not fear, ur-Lord. The Ranyhyn will warn us if the wolves are any danger."
Covenant turned his head. The Bloodguard reached a restraining hand toward him.
"Don't touch me!" Covenant hissed.
He jerked away from Bannor. For an instant while his heart labored, he observed how the crimson moon made Bannor's face look like old lava. Then a vicious sense of wrong exploded under his feet, and he pitched toward the fire.
As he struck the earth he flung himself onward, careless of everything but his intense visceral need to escape the attack. After one roll, his legs crashed among the flaming brands.
But as Covenant fell, Bannor sprang forward. When Covenant hit the fire, the Bloodguard was only a stride away. He caught Covenant's wrist in almost the same instant, heaved him child-light out of the flames and onto his feet.
Even before he had regained his balance, Covenant spun on Bannor and yelled into the Bloodguard's face, "Don't touch me!"
Bannor released Covenant's wrist, backed away a step.
Prothall, Mhoram, Foamfollower, and all the wards were on their feet. They stared at Covenant in reprise, confusion, outrage.
He felt suddenly weak. His legs trembled; he gypped to his knees beside the fire. Thinking, Hell and bloody Foul has done it to me, he's taking
me over damnation! he pointed an unsteady finger at the ground that had stung him. "There," he gasped. "It was there. I felt it."
The Lords reacted immediately. While Mhoram shouted for Birinair, Prothall hurried forward and stooped over the spot Covenant indicated. Mumbling softly to himself, he touched the spot with the tips of his fingers like a physician testing a wound. Then he was joined by Mhoram and Birinair. Birinair thrust the High Lord aside, took his lillianrill staff and placed its end on the sore place. Rotating the staff between his palms, he concentrated imperiously on his beloved wood.
"For one moment," Prothall murmured, "for one moment I felt something-some memory in the Earth. Then it passed beyond my touch." He sighed. "It was terrible."
Birinair echoed, "Terrible," talking to himself in his concentration. Prothall and Mhoram watched him as his hands trembled with either age or sensitivity. Abruptly, he cried, "Terrible! The hand of the Slayer! He dares do this?" He snatched himself away so quickly that he stumbled, and would have fallen if Prothall had not caught him.
Momentarily, Prothall and Birinair met each other's eyes as if they were trying to exchange some knowledge that could not be voiced. Then Birinair shook himself free. Looking about him as if he could see the shards of his dignity scattered around his feet, he mumbled gruffly, "Stand on my own. Not that old yet." After a glance at Covenant, he went on more loudly, "You think I am old. Of course. Old and foolish. Push himself into a Quest when he should be resting his bones by the hearth. Like a lump." Pointing toward the Unbeliever, he concluded, "Ask him. Ask."
Covenant had climbed to his feet while the attention of the company was on the Hirebrand, and had pushed his hands into his pockets to hide the hue of his ring. As Birinair pointed at him, he raised his eyes from the ground. A sick feeling of presage twisted his stomach as he remembered his attacks in Andelain, and what had followed them.
Prothall said firmly, "Step there again, ur-Lord."
Grimacing, Covenant strode forward and stamped his foot on the spot. As his heel hit the ground, he winced in expectation, tried to brace himself for the sensation that at this one point the earth had become insecure, foundationless. But nothing stung him. As in Andelain, the ill had vanished, leaving him with the impression that a veneer of trustworthiness had been replaced over a pit.
In answer to the silent question of the Lords, he shook his head.
After a pause, Mhoram said evenly, "You have felt this before."
With an effort, Covenant forced himself to say, "Yes. Several times-in Andelain. Before that attack on the Celebration."
"The hand of the Gray Slayer touched you," Birinair spat. But he could not sustain his accusation. His bones seemed to remember their age, and ire sagged tiredly, leaned on his staff. In an odd tone of self reproach, as if he were apologizing, he mumbled, "Of course. Younger. If I were younger." He tamed from the company and shuffled away to his iced beyond the circle.
"Why did you not tell us?" Mhoram asked severely.
The question made Covenant feel suddenly ashamed, as if his ring were visible through the fabric of his pants. His shoulders hunched, drove his hands deeper into his pockets. "I didn't-at first I didn't want you to know what-how important Foul and Drool mink I am. After that"-he referred to his crisis in the Close with his eyes-"I was thinking about other Mhoram accepted this with a nod, and after a moment Covenant went on: "I don't know what it is. But I only get it through my boots. I can't touch it--with my hands or my feet."
Mhoram and Prothall shared a glance of surprise. Shortly, the High Lord said, "Unbeliever, the cause if these attacks surpasses me. Why do your boots make you sensitive to this wrong? I do not know. But either Lord Mhoram or myself must remain by you at all times, so that we may respond without delay." Over his shoulder, he said, "First Mark Tuvor. Warhaft Quaan. Have you heard?"
Quaan came to attention and replied, "Yes, High Lord." And from behind the circle Tuvor's voice carried softly, "There will be an attack. We have heard."
"Readiness will be needed," said Mhoram grimly, "and stout hearts to face an onslaught of ur-viles and wolves and Cavewights without faltering."
"That is so," the High Lord said at last. "But such things will come in their own time. Now we must rest. We must gather strength."
Slowly, the company began the business of bedding down. Humming his Giantish plainsong, Foamfollower stretched out on the ground with his arm around his leather flask of diamondraught. While the Bloodguard set watches, the warriors spread blankets for themselves and the Lords. Covenant went to bed self consciously, as if he felt the company studying him, and he was glad of the blankets that helped him hide his ring. Then he lay awake long into the night, feeling too cold to sleep; the blankets did not keep out the chill which emanated from his ring.
But until he finally fell asleep, he could hear Foam follower's humming and see Prothall sitting by the embers of the fire. The Giant and the High Lord kept watch together, two old friends of the Land sharing some vigil against their impending doom.
The next day dawned gray and cheerless-overcast with clouds like ashes in the sky-and into it Covenant rode bent in his saddle as if he had a weight around his neck. His ring had lost its red stain with the setting of the moon; but the color remained in his mind, and the ring seemed to drag him down like a meaningless crime. Helplessly, he perceived that an allegiance he had not chosen, could not have chosen, was being forced upon him. The evidence seemed irrefutable. Like the moon, he was falling prey to Lord Foul's machinations. His volition was not required; the strings which dangled him were strong enough to overbear any resistance.
He did not understand how it could happen to him. Was his death wish, his leper's weariness or despair, so strong? What had become of his obdurate instinct for survival? Where was his anger, his violence? Had he been victimized for so long that now he could only respond as a victim, even to himself?
He had no answers. He was sure of nothing but the fear which came over him when the company halted at noon. He found that he did not want to get down from Dura's back.
He distrusted the ground, dreaded contact with it. He had lost a fundamental confidence: his faith that the earth was stable-a faith so obvious and constant and necessary that it had been unconscious until now -had been shaken. Blind silent soil had become a dark hand malevolently seeking out him and him alone.
Nevertheless, he swung down from the saddle, forced himself to set foot on the ground and was stung. The virulence of the sensation made all his nerves cringe, and he could hardly stand as he watched Prothall and Mhoram and Birinair try to capture what he had felt. But they failed completely; the misery of that ill touch withdrew the instant he jumped away from it.
That evening during supper he was stung again. When he went to bed to hide his ring from the moon, he shivered as if he were feverish. On the morning of the sixth day, he arose with a gray face and a crippled look in his eyes. Before he could mount Nomura he was stung again.
And again during one of the company's rest halts.
And again the instant he mustered enough despair to dismount at the end of the day's ride. The wrong felt like another spike in his coffin lid. This time, his nerves reacted so violently that he tumbled to the ground like a demonstration of futility. He had to lie still for a long time before he could coax his arms and legs under control again, and when he finally regained feet, he jerked and winced with fear at every step.
Pathetic, pathetic, he panted to himself. But he could not find the rage to master it.
With keen concern in his eyes, Foamfollower asked him why he did not take off his boots. Covenant had to think for a moment before he could remember why. Then he murmured, "They're part of me-they're part of the way I have to live. I don't have very many parts left. And besides," he added wanly, "if I don't keep having these fits, how is Prothall going to figure them out?"
"Do not do such a thing for us," Mhoram replied intently. "How could we ask it?"
But Covenant only shrugged and went to sit by the fire. He could not face food that night-the thought of eating made his raw nerves nauseous-but he tried a few aliantha from a bush near the camp, and found that they had a calming effect. He ate a handful of the berries, absentmindedly tossing away the seeds as Lena had taught him, and returned to the fire.
When the company had finished its meal, Mhoram seated himself beside Covenant. Without looking at him, the Lord asked, "How can we help you? Should we build a litter so that you will not have to touch the earth? Or are there other ways? Perhaps one of Foamfollower's tales would ease your heart. I have heard Giants boast that the Despiser himself would become an Earthfriend if he could be made to listen to the story of Bahgoon the Unbearable and Thelma Twofist -such healing there is in stories." Abruptly, Mhoram turned squarely toward Covenant, and Covenant saw that the Lord's face was full of sympathy. "I see your pain, ur-Lord."
Covenant hung his head to avoid Mhoram's gaze, made sure his left hand was securely in his pocket. After a moment, he said distantly, "Tell me about the Creator."
"Ah," Mhoram sighed, "we do not know that a Creator lives. Our only lore of such a being comes from the most shadowy reaches of our oldest legends. We know the Despiser. But the Creator we do not know."
Then Covenant was vaguely startled to hear Lord Tamarantha cut in, "Of course we know. Ah, the folly of the young. Mhoram my son, you are not yet a prophet. You must learn that kind of courage." Slowly, she pulled her ancient limbs together and got to her feet, leaning on her staff for support. Her thin white hair hung in wisps about her face as she moved into the circle around the fire, muttering frailty, "Oracles and prophecy are incompatible. According to Kevin's Lore, only Heartthew the Lord-Fatherer was both seer and prophet. Lesser souls lose the paradox. Why, I do not know. But when Kevin Landwaster decided in his heart to invoke the Ritual of Desecration, he saved the Bloodguard and the Ranyhyn and the Giants because he was an oracle. And because he was no prophet he failed to see that Lord Foul would survive. A lesser man than Berek. Of course the Creator lives."
She looked over at Variol for confirmation, and he nodded, but Covenant could not tell whether he was approving or drowsing. But Tamarantha nodded in return as if Variol had supported her. Lifting her head to the night sky and the stars, she spoke in a voice fragile with age.
"Of course the Creator lives," she repeated. "How else? Opposites require each other. Otherwise the difference is lost, and only chaos remains. No, there can be no Despite without Creation. Better to ask how the Creator could have forgotten that when he made the Earth. For if he did not forget, then Creation and Despite existed together in his one being, and he did not know it.
"This the elder legends tell us: into the infinity before Time was made came the Creator like a worker into his workshop. And since it is the nature of creating to desire perfection, the Creator devoted all himself to the task. First he built the arch of Time, so that his creation would have a place in which to beard for the keystone of that arch he forged the wild magic, so that Time would be able to resist chaos and endure. Then within the arch he formed the Earth. For ages he labored, formed and unformed, trialed and tested and rejected and trialed and tested again, so that when he was done his creation would have no cause to reproach him. And when the Earth was fair to his eye, he gave birth to the inhabitants of the Earth, beings to act out in their lives his reach for perfection-and he did not neglect to give them the means to strive for perfection themselves. When he was done, he was proud as only those who create can be.
"Alas, he did not understand Despite, or had forgotten it. He undertook his task thinking that perfect labor was all that he required to create perfection. But when he was done, and his pride had tasted its first satisfaction, he looked closely at the Earth, thinking to gratify himself with the sight-and he was dismayed. For, behold! Buried deep in the Earth through no will or forming of his were banes of destruction, powers virile enough to rip his masterwork into dust.
"Then he understood or remembered. Perhaps he found Despite itself beside him, misguiding his hand. Or perhaps he saw the harm in himself. It does not matter. He became outraged with grief and torn pride. In his fury he wrestled with Despite, either within him or without, and in his fury he. cast the Despiser down, out of the infinity of the cosmos onto the Earth.
"Alas! thus the Despiser was emprisoned within Time. And thus the Creator's creation became the Despiser's world, to torment as he chose. For the very Law of Time, the principle of power which made the arch possible, worked to preserve Lord Foul, as we now call him. That Law requires that no act may be undone. Desecration may not be undone-defilement may not be recanted. It may be survived or healed, but not denied. Therefore Lord Foul has afflicted the Earth, and the Creator cannot stop him-for it was the Creator's act which placed Despite here.
"In sorrow and humility, the Creator saw what he had done. So that the plight of the Earth would not be utterly without hope, he sought to help his creation in indirect ways. He guided the Lord-Fatherer to the fashioning of the Staff of Lawa weapon against Despite. But the very Law of the Earth's creation permits nothing more. If the Creator were to silence
Lord Foul, that act would destroy Time-and then the Despiser would be free in infinity again, free to make whatever befoulments he desired."
Tamarantha paused. She had told her tale simply, without towering rhetoric or agitation or any sign of passion beyond her agedness. But for a moment, her thin old voice convinced Covenant that the universe was at stake-that his own struggle was only a microcosm of a far larger conflict. During that moment, he waited in suspense for what she would say next.
Shortly, she lowered her head and turned her wrinkled gaze full on him. Almost whispering, she said, "Thus we are come to the greatest test. The wild magic is here. With a word our world could be riven to the core. Do not mistake," she quavered. "If we cannot win this Unbeliever to our cause, then the Earth will end in rubble." But Covenant could not tell whether her voice shook because she was old, or because she was afraid.
Moonrise was near; he went to his bed to avoid exposing the alteration of his ring. With his head under the blankets, he stared into the blackness, saw when the moon came up by the bloody glow which grew in his wedding band. The metal seemed more deeply stained than it had two nights ago. It held his covered gaze like a fixation; and when 'he finally slept, he was as exhausted as if he had been worn out under an interrogation.
The next morning, he managed to reach Dura's back without being attacked-and he groaned in unashamed relief. Then Prothall broke his usual habit and did not call for a halt at noon. The reason became clear when the riders topped a rise and came in sight of the Soulsease River. They rode down out of the harsh plains and swam their horses across the river before stopping to rest. And there again Covenant was not attacked when he set foot on the ground.
But the rest of the day contrasted grimly with this inexplicable respite. A few leagues beyond the Soulsease, the Quest came upon a Waymeet for the first time. Remembering Covenant's tale of a murdered Waynhim, Prothall sent two Bloodguard, Korik and Terrel (who warded Lord Mhoram), into the Waymeet. The investigation was only necessary for confirmation. Even Covenant in his straitened condition could see the neglect, smell the disuse; the green travelers' haven had gone brown and sour. When Korik and Terrel returned, they could only report what the company had already perceived: the Waymeet was untended.
The Lords met this discovery with stern faces. Clearly, they had feared that the murder Covenant had described would lead the Waynhim to end their service. But several of the warriors groaned in shock and dismay, and Foamfollower ground his teeth. Covenant glanced around at the Giant, and for a moment saw Foamfollower's face suffused with fury. The expression passed quickly, but it left Covenant feeling shaken. Unexpectedly, he sensed that the unmarred loyalty of the Giants to the Land was dangerous; it was quick to judge.
So there was a gloom on the company at the end of the seventh day, a gloom which could only be aggravated by the moon, incarnadine and corrupt, as it colored the night like a conviction of disaster. Only Covenant received any relief; once again, his private, stalking ill left him alone. But the next day brought the riders in sight of Andelain. Their path lay along the outskirts of the Hills on the southwest side, and even through the hanging gray weather, the richness of Andelain glistened like the proudest gem of the Earth. It made the company feel light-boned, affected the Quest like a living view of what the Land had been like before the Desecration.
Covenant needed that quiet consolation as much as anyone, but it was denied him. While eating breakfast, he had been bitten again by the wrong in the earth. The previous day's respite seemed only to multiply the virulence of the attack; it was compact with malevolence, as if that respite had frustrated it, intensified its spite. The sensation of wrong left him foundering.
During one of the rest halts, he was struck again.
And that evening, while he made himself a supper of aliantha, he was 'struck again. This time the wrong lashed him so viciously that he passed out for some time. When he regained consciousness, he was lying in Foamfollower's arms like a child. He felt vaguely that he had had convulsions.
"Take off your boots," Foamfollower urged intently.
Numbness filled Covenant's head like mist, clouded his reactions. But he mustered the lucidity to ask, "Why?"
"Why? Stone and Sea, my friend! When you ask like that, how can I answer? Ask yourself. What do you gain by enduring such wrong?"
"Myself," he murmured faintly. He wanted simply to recline in the Giant's arms and sleep, but he fought the desire, pushed himself away from Foamfollower until the Giant set him on his feet by Birinair's lillianrill fire. For a moment, he had to cling decrepitly to Foamfollower's arm to support himself, but then one of the warriors gave him his staff, and he braced himself on it. "By resisting."
But he knew in his bones that he was not resisting. They felt weak, as if they were melting under the strain. His boots had become a hollow symbol for an intransigence he no longer felt.
Foamfollower started to object, but Mhoram stopped him. "It is his choice," the Lord said softly.
After a while, Covenant fell into feverish sleep. He did not know that he was carried tenderly to bed, did not know that Mhoram watched over him during the night, and saw the bloody stain on his wedding band.
He reached some sort of crisis while he slept, and awoke with the feeling that he had lost, that his ability to endure had reached the final either-or of a toss which had gone against him. His throat was parched like a battleground. When he forced his eyes open, he found himself again prostrated in Foamfollower's arms. Around him, the company was ready to mount for the day's ride.
When he saw Covenant's eyes open, Foamfollower bent over him and said quietly, "I would rather bear You in my arms than see you suffer. Our journey to Lord's Keep was easier for me than watching you now."
Part of Covenant rallied to look at the Giant. Foamfollower's face showed strain, but it was not the strain of exhaustion. Rather, it seemed like a pressure building up in his mind-a pressure that made the fortress of his forehead appear to bulge. Covenant stared at it dumbly for a long moment before he realized that it was sympathy. The sight of his own pain made Foamfollower's pulse throb in his temples.
Giants? Covenant breathed to himself. Are they all like this? Watching that concentration of emotion, he murmured, "What's a 'foamfollower'?"
The Giant did not appear to notice the irrelevance of the question. "A `follower' is a compass," he answered simply. "So 'foam-follower'-'sea-compass."'
Covenant began weakly moving, trying to get out of the Giant's arms. But Foamfollower held him, forbade him in silence to set his feet on the ground.
Lord Mhoram intervened. With grim determination in his voice, he said, "Set him down."
"Down," Covenant echoed.
Several retorts passed under Foamfollower's heavy brows, but he only said, "Why?"
"I have decided," Mhoram replied. "We will not move from this place until we understand what is happening to ur-Lord Covenant. I have delayed this risk too long. Death gathers around us. Set him down." His eyes flashed dangerously.
Still Foamfollower hesitated until he saw High Lord Prothall nod support for Mhoram. Then he turned Covenant upright and lowered him gently to the ground. For an instant, his hands rested protectively on Covenant's shoulders. Then he stepped back.
"Now, ur-Lord," said Mhoram. "Give me your hand. We will stand together until you feel the ill, and I feel it through you."
At that, a coil of weak panic writhed in Covenant's heart. He saw himself reflected in Mhoram's eyes, , saw himself standing lornly with what he had lost written in his face. That loss dismayed him. In that tiny, reflected face he perceived abruptly that if the attacks continued he would inevitably learn to enjoy the sense of horror and loathing which they gave him. He had discovered a frontier into the narcissism of revulsion, and Mhoram was asking him to risk crossing over.
"Come," the Lord urged, extending his right hand. "We must understand this wrong if we are to resist it."
In desperation or despair, Covenant thrust out his hand. The heels of their palms met; they gripped each other's thumbs. His two fingers felt weak, hopeless for Mhoram's purpose, but the Lord's grasp was sturdy. Hand to hand like combatants, they stood there as though they were about to wrestle with some bitter ghoul.
The attack came almost at once. Covenant cried out, shook as if his bones were gibbering, but he did not leap away. In the first instant, Mhoram's hard grip sustained him. Then the Lord threw his arm around Covenant, clasped him to his, chest: The violence of Covenant's distress buffeted Mhoram, but he held his ground, gritted his embrace.
As suddenly as it had come, the attack passed. With a groan, Covenant sagged in Mhoram's arms.
Mhoram held him up until he moved and began to carry his own weight. Then, slowly, the Lord released him. For a moment, their faces appeared oddly similar; they had the same haunted expression, the same sweat-damp hollow gaze. But shortly Covenant gave a shuddering sigh, and Mhoram straightened his shoulders-and the similarity faded.
"I was a fool," Mhoram breathed. "I should have known-That ill is Drool Rockworm, reaching out with the power of the Staff to find you. He can sense pour presence by the touch of your boots on the earth, because they are unlike anything made in the Land. Thus he knows where you are, and so where we are.
"It is my guess that you were untouched the day we crossed the Soulsease because Drool expected us to move toward him on the River, and was searching for us on water rather than on land. But he learned his mistake, and regained contact with you yesterday."
The Lord paused, gave what he was saying a chance to penetrate Covenant. Then he concluded, "Ur-Lord, for the sake of us all-for the sake of the Land-you must not wear your boots. Drool already knows too much of our movements. His servants are abroad."
Covenant did not respond. Mhoram's words seemed to sap the last of his strength. The trial had been too much for him; with a sigh he fainted into the Lord's arms. So he did not see how carefully his boots and clothes were removed and packed in Dura's saddlebags-how tenderly his limbs were washed by the I Lords and dressed in a robe of white samite-how sadly his ring was taken from his finger and placed on a new patch of clingor over his heart-how gently he was cradled in Saltheart Foamfollower's arms throughout the long march of that day. He lay in darkness like a sacrifice; he could hear the teeth of his leprosy devouring his flesh. There was a smell of contempt around him, insisting on his impotence. But his lips were bowed in a placid smile, a look of fondness, as if he had come at last to approve his disintegration.
He continued to smile when he awoke late that night and found himself staring into the wide ghoul grin of the moon. Slowly, his smile stretched into a taut grimace, a look of happiness or hatred. But then the moon was blocked out of his vision by Foamfollower's great bulk. The Giant's huge palms, each as large as Covenant's face, stroked his head tenderly, and in time the caress had its effect on him. His eyes lost their ghastly appearance, and his face relaxed, drifted away from torment into repose. Soon he was deep in a less perilous slumber.
The next day-the tenth of the Quest-he awoke calmly, as if he were held in numb truce or stasis between irreconcilable demands. A feeling of affectlessness pervaded him, as if he no longer had the heart to care about himself. Yet he was hungry. He ate a large breakfast, and remembered to thank the Woodhelvennin woman who seemed to have assigned herself the task of providing for him. His new apparel he accepted with a rueful shrug, noticing in silent, dim sarcasm how easily after all he was able to shed himself-and how the white robe flattered his gaunt form as if he were born to it. Then, dumbly, he mounted Dura.
His companions watched him as if they feared he would fall. He was weaker than he had realized; he needed most of his concentration to keep his seat, but he was equal to the task. Gradually the Questers began to believe that he was out of danger. Among them, he rode through the sunshine and the warm spring air along the flowered marge of Andelain-rode attenuated and careless, as if he were locked between impossibilities.

Seventeen: End in Fire


THAT night, the company camped in a narrow valley between two rocky hillsides half a league from the thick grasses of Andelain. The warriors were cheery, recovering their natural spirits after the tensions of the past few days, and they told stories and sang songs to the quiet audience of the Lords and Bloodguard. Though the Lords did not participate, they seemed glad to listen, and several times Mhoram and Quaan could be heard chuckling together.
But Covenant did not share the ebullience of the Eoman. A heavy hand of blankness held shut the lid his emotions, and he felt separate, untouchable. Finally he went to his bed before the warriors were done with their last song.
He was awakened some time later by a hand on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he found Foamfollower stooping beside him. The moon had nearly set. "Arise," the Giant whispered. "The Ranyhyn have brought word. Wolves are hunting us. Ur-viles may not be far behind. We must go."
Covenant blinked sleepily at the Giant's benighted face for a moment. "Why? Won't they follow?"
"Make haste, ur-Lord. Terrel, Korik, and perhaps a, third of Quaan's Eoman will remain here in ambush. They will scatter the pack. Come."
But Covenant persisted. "So what? They'll just fall back and follow again. Let me sleep."
"My friend, you try my patience. Arise, and I will explain."
With a sigh, Covenant rolled from his blankets. While he tightened the sash of his robe, settled his sandals on his feet, and assured himself of his staff and knife, his Woodhelvennin helper snatched up his bedding and packed it away. Then she led Dura toward him.
Amid the silent urgency of the company, he mounted, then went with Foamfollower toward the center of the camp, where the Lords and Bloodguard were already mounted. When the warriors were ready, Birinair extinguished the last embers of the fire, and climbed stiffly onto his horse. A moment later, the riders turned and fled the narrow valley, picking their way across the rough terrain by the last red light of the moon.
The ground under Dura's hooves looked like blood slowly clotting, and Covenant clutched his ring to preserve it from the crimson light. Around him, the company moved in a tight suspense of silence; every low, metal clatter of sword was instantly muffled, every breath covered. The Ranyhyn were as noiseless as shadows, and on their broad backs the Bloodguard sat like statues, eternally alert and insentient.
Then the moon set. Darkness was a relief, though it seemed to increase the hazard of their escape. But the whole company was surrounded, guided, by the Ranyhyn, and the mighty horses chose a path which kept the other mounts safe between them.
After two or three leagues had passed, the mood
of the Quest relaxed somewhat. They heard no pursuit, sensed no danger. Finally Foamfollower gave Covenant the explanation he had promised.
"It is simple," the Giant whispered. "After scattering the wolves, Korik and Terrel will lead a trail away from ours. They will go straight into Andelain, east toward Mount Thunder, until pursuit has been confused. Then they will turn and rejoin us."
"Why?" Covenant asked softly.
Lord Mhoram took up the explanation. "We doubt that Drool can understand our purpose." Covenant could not feel the Lord's presence as strongly as Foamfollower's, so Mhoram's voice sounded disembodied in the darkness, as if the night were speaking. That impression seemed to belie his words, as if without the verification of physical presence what the Lord said was vain. "Much of our Quest may seem foolhardy or foolish to him. Since he holds the Staff, we are mad to approach him. But if we mean to approach nonetheless, then our southward path is folly, for it is long, and his power grows-daily. He will expect us to turn east toward him, or south toward Doom's Retreat and escape. Korik and Terrel will give Drool's scouts reason to believe that we have turned to attack. If he becomes unsure of where we are, he will not guess our true aim. He will search for us in Andelain, and will seek to strengthen his defenses in Mount Thunder. Believing that we have turned to attack him, he will also believe that we have mastered the power of your white gold."
Covenant considered momentarily before asking, "What's Foul going to be doing during all this?"
"Ah," Mhoram sighed, "that is a question. There hangs the fate of our Quest-and of the Land." He was silent for a long time. "In my dreams, I see him laughing."
Covenant winced at the memory of Foul's crushing laughter, and fell silent. So the riders crept on through the dark, trusting themselves to the instincts of the Ranyhyn. When dawn came, they had left their ambush for the wolves far behind.
It took the company four more days of hard riding, fifteen leagues a day, to reach the Mithil River, the southern boundary of Andelain. For sixty leagues, the Quest drove to the southeast without a hint of what had befallen Korik's group. In all, only eight people had left the company. But somehow without them the Quest seemed shrunken and puny. The concern of the High Lord and his companions rumbled in the hoofbeats of their mounts, and echoed in the silence that lay between them like an empty bier.
Gone now was the gladness of eye with which the warriors had beheld Andelain never more than a league to their left. From dawn to dusk every glance studied the eastern horizons; they saw nothing but a void in which Korik's riders had not appeared. Time and again, Foamfollower broke away from the company to trot up the nearest hill and peer into the distance; time and again, he returned panting and comfortless, and the company was left to conceive nightmares to explain Korik's absence.
The unspoken consensus was that no number of wolves was large enough to conquer two Bloodguard, mounted as they were on Huryn and Brabha of the Ranyhyn. No, Korik's group must have fallen into the hands of a small army of ur-viles so the company reasoned, though Prothall argued that Korik might have had to ride many leagues to find a river or other means to throw the wolves off his trail. The High Lord's words were sound, but somehow under the incarnadine moon they seemed hollow. In spite of them, Warhaft Quaan went 'about his duties with the deaths of six warriors in his face.
All the riders were shrouded in gloom when, near twilight on the fourth day, they reached the banks of the Mithil.
Immediately on their left as they neared the river stood a steep hill like a boundary of Andelain. It guarded the north bank; the company could only cross its base into Andelain by riding single file along the river edge. But Prothall chose that path in preference to swimming the stiff current of the Mithil. With only Tuvor before him, he led the way east along the scant bank. The Questers followed one by one. Soon the entire company was traversing the boundary of the hill.
Spread out as they were, they were vulnerable. As the hill rose beside them, its slope became almost sheer, and its rocky crown commanded the path along the river like a fortification. The riders moved with their heads craned upward; they were keenly conscious of the hazard of their position.
They were still in the traverse when they heard a hail from the hilltop. Among the rocks, a figure rose into view. It was Terrel.
The riders returned his hail joyfully. Hurrying, they crossed the base of the hill, and found themselves in a broad, grassy valley where horses-two Ranyhyn and five mustangs-grazed up away from the river.
The mustangs were exhausted. Their legs quivered weakly, and their necks drooped; they barely had strength enough to eat.
Five, Covenant repeated. He felt numbly sure that he had miscounted.
Korik was on his way down from the hilltop. He was accompanied by five warriors.
With an angry shout, Quaan leaped from his horse and ran toward the Bloodguard. "Irin!" he demanded. "Where is Irin? By the Seven! What has happened to her?"
Korik did not answer until he stood with his group before High Lord Prothall. They struck Covenant as a strange combination: five warriors full of conflicting excitement, courage, grief; and one Bloodguard as impassive as a patriarch. If Korik felt any satisfaction or pain, he did not show it.
He held a bulging pack in one hand, but did not refer to it. immediately. Instead, he saluted Prothall, and said, High Lord. You are well. Have you been pursued?"
"We have seen no pursuit," Prothall replied gravely.
"That is good. It appeared to us that we were successful."
Prothall nodded, and Korik began his tale. "We met the wolves and sought to scatter them. But they were kresh"-he made a splitting sound" not easily turned aside. So we led them eastward. They would not enter Andelain. They howled on our track, but would not enter. We watched from a distance until they turned away to the north. Then we rode east.
"After a day and a night, we broke trail and turned south. But we came upon marauders. They were mightier than we knew. There were ur-viles and Cavewights together, and with them a griffin."
Korik's audience murmured with surprise and chagrin, and the Bloodguard paused to utter what sounded like a long curse in the tonal native tongue of-the Haruchai. Then he continued: "Irin purchased our escape. But we were driven far from our way. We reached this place only a short time before you."
With a revolted flaring of his nostrils, he lifted the pack. "This morning we saw a hawk over us. It flew strangely. We shot it." Reaching into the pack, he drew out the body of the bird. Above its vicious beak, it had only one eye, a large mad orb centered in its forehead.
It struck the company with radiated malice. The hawk was ill, incondign, a thing created by wrong for purposes of wrong-bent away from its birth by a power that dared to warp nature. The sight stuck in Covenant's throat, made him want to retch. He could hardly hear Prothall say, "This is the work of the Illearth Stone. How could the Staff of Law perform such a crime, such an outrage? Ah, my friends, this is the outcome of our enemy. Look closely. It is a mercy to take such creatures out of life." Abruptly, the High Lord turned away, burdened by his new knowledge.
Quaan and Birinair cremated the ill-formed hawk. Soon the warriors who had gone with Korik began to talk, and a fuller picture of their past four days emerged. Attention naturally centered on the fight which had killed Irin of the Eoman.
The Ranyhyn Brabha had first smelled danger, and had given the warning to Korik. At once, he had hidden his group in a thick copse to await the coming of the marauders. Listening with his ear to the ground, he had judged that they were a mixed force of unmounted ur-viles and Cavewights-Cavewights had not the ur-viles' ability to step softly totaling no more than fifteen. So Korik had asked himself which way his service lay: to preserve his companions as defenders of the Lords, or to damage the Lords' enemies. The Bloodguard were sworn to the protection of the Lords, not of the Land. He had elected to fight because he judged that his force was strong enough, considering the element of surprise, to meet both duties without loss of life.
His decision had saved them. They learned later that if they had not attacked they would have been trapped in the copse; the panic of the horses would have given away their hiding.
It was a dark night after moonset, the second night after Korik's group had left the company, and the marauders were moving without lights. Even the Bloodguard's keen eyes discerned nothing more than the shadowy outlines of the enemy. And the wind blew between the two forces, so that the Ranyhyn were prevented from smelling the extent of their peril.
When the marauders reached open ground, Korik signaled to his group; the warriors swept out of the copse behind him and Terrel. The Ranyhyn outdistanced the others at once, so Korik and Terrel had just engaged the enemy when they heard the terror screams of the horses. Wheeling around, the Bloodguard saw all six warriors struggling with their panicked steeds-and the griffin hovering over them. The griffin was a lion-like creature with sturdy wings that enabled it to fly for short distances. It terrified the horses, swooped at the riders. Korik and Terrel raced toward their comrades. And behind them came the marauders.
The Bloodguard hurled- themselves at the griffin, but aloft, with its clawed feet downward, it had no vulnerable spots that they could reach without weapons. Then the marauders fell on the group. The warriors rallied to defend their horses. In the melee, Korik poised himself on Brabha's back to spring up at the grin at the first opportunity. But when his chance came, Irin cut in front of him. Somehow, she had captured a long Cavewightish broadsword. The griffin snatched her up in its claws, and as it ripped her apart she beheaded it.
The next moment, another party of marauders charged forward. The warriors' horses were too terrified to' do anything but run. So Korik's group fled, dashed east and north with the enemy on their heels. By the time they lost the pursuit, they had been driven so far into Andelain that they had not been able to rejoin Prothall until the fourth day.
Early in the evening, the reunited company set up camp. While they prepared supper, a cool wind slowly mounted out of the north. At first it felt refreshing, full of Andelainian scents. But as moonrise neared, it stiffened with a palpable wrench until it was scything straight through the valley. Covenant could taste its unnaturalness; he had felt something like it before. Like a whip, it drove dark cloudbanks southward.
As the evening wore on, no one seemed inclined toward sleep. Depression deepened in the company as if the wind were taut with dismay. On opposite sides of the camp, Foamfollower and Quaan paced out their uneasiness. Most of the warriors squatted around in dejected attitudes, fiddling aimlessly with their weapons. Birinair poked in unrelieved dissatisfaction at the fire. Prothall and Mhoram stood squarely in the wind as if they were trying to read it with the nerves of their faces. And Covenant sat with his head bowed under a flurry of memories.
Only Variol and Tamarantha remained ungloomed. Arm in arm, the two ancient Lords sat and stared with a dreaming, drowsy look into the fire, and the firelight flickered like writing on their foreheads.
Around the camp, the Bloodguard stood as stolid as stone.
Finally, Mhoram voiced the feeling of the company. "Something happens-something dire. This is no natural wind."
Under the clouds, the eastern horizon glowed red with moonlight. From time to time, Covenant thought be saw an orange flicker in the crimson, but he could not be sure. Covertly, he studied his ring, and found the same occasional orange cast under the dominating blood. But he said nothing. He was too ashamed of Drool's hold on him.
Still no storm came. The wind blew on, rife with red mutterings and old ice, but it brought nothing but clouds and discouragement to the company. At last, most of the warriors dozed fitfully, shivering against the cut of the wind as it bore its harvest of distress toward Doom's Retreat and the Southron Wastes.
There was no dawn; clouds choked the rising sun. But the company was roused by a change in the wind. It dropped and warmed, swung-slowly toward the west. But it did not feel, healthier-only more subtle. Several of the warriors rolled out of their blankets, clutching their swords.
The company ate in haste, impelled by the indefinite apprehension of the breeze. The old Hirebrand, Birinair, was the first to understand. While chewing a mouthful of bread, he suddenly jerked erect as if he had been slapped. Quivering with concentration, he glowered at the eastern horizon, then spat the bread to the ground. "Burning!" be hissed. "The wind. I smell it. Burning. What? I can smell- Burning-a tree!
"A tree!" he wailed. "Ah, they dare!"
For an instant, the company stared at him in silence. Then Mhoram ejaculated, "Soaring Woodhelven is in flames!"
His companions sprang into action. Shrilly, the Bloodguard whistled for the Ranyhyn. Prothall snapped orders which Quaan echoed in a raw shout. Some of the warriors sprinted to saddle the horses, while others broke camp. By the time Covenant was dressed and mounted on Dura, the Quest was ready to ride. At once, it galloped away eastward along the Mithil.
Before long, the horses began to give trouble. Even
the freshest ones could not keep pace with the Ranyhyn, and the mustangs which had been with Korik in Andelain. had not recovered their strength. The terrain did not allow for speed; it was too uneven. Prothall sent two Bloodguard ahead as scouts. But after that he was forced to move more slowly; he could not afford to leave part of his force behind. Still, he kept the pace as fast as possible. It was a frustrating ride-Covenant seemed to hear Quaan grinding his teeth-but it could not be helped. Grimly, Prothall held the fresher horses back.
By noon, they reached the ford of the Mithil. Now they could see smoke due south of them; and the smell of burning was powerful in the air. Prothall commanded a halt to water the horses. Then the riders pushed on, urging their weakest mounts to find somewhere new resources of strength and speed.
Within a few leagues, the High Lord had to slow his pace still more; the scouts had not returned. The possibility that they had been ambushed clenched his brow, and his eyes glittered as if the orbs had facets of granite. He held the riders to a walk while he sent two more Bloodguard ahead.
These two returned before the company had covered a league. They reported that Soaring Woodhelven was dead. The area around it was deserted; signs indicated that the first two scouts had ridden away to the south.
Muttering, "Melenkurion!" under his breath, Prothall led the riders forward at a canter until they reached the remains of the tree village.
The destruction was a fiendish piece of work. Fire had reduced the original tree to smoldering spars less than a hundred feet tall, and the charred trunk had been split from top to bottom, leaving the two halves leaning slightly away from each other. Occasional flames still flickered near their tips. And all around the base of the tree, corpses littered the ground as if the earth were already too full of dead to contain the population of the village. Other Woodhelvennin bodies, unburned, were scattered generally in a line to the south across the glade.
Along this southward line, a few dead Cavewights sprawled in battle contortion. But near the tree there was only one body which was not human--one dead ur-vile. It lay on its long back on the south of the tree, facing the split trunk; and its soot-black frame was as twisted as the iron stave still clutched in its hands. Nearby lay a heavy iron plate nearly ten feet across.
The stench of dead, burned flesh appalled the surrounding glade. A memory of Woodhelvennin children writhed in Covenant's guts. He felt like vomiting.
The Lords seemed stupefied by the sight, stunned to realize that people under their care could be so murdered. After a moment, First Mark Tuvor reconstructed the battle for them.
The folk of Soaring Woodhelven had not had a chance.
Late the previous day, Tuvor judged, a large party of Cavewights and ur-viler-the trampling of the glade attested that the party was very large-had surrounded the tree. They had kept out of effective arrow range. Instead of assaulting the Woodhelvennin directly, they sent a few of their number-almost certainly ur-viles forward under cover of the iron plate. Thus protected, the ur-viles set flame to the tree.
"A poor fire," Birinair inserted. Approaching the tree, he tapped it with his staff. A patch of charcoal fell away, showing white wood underneath. "Strong fire consumes everything," he muttered. "Almost, they survived. This is good wood. Make the flame a little weaker-and the wood survives. Those who dared only strong enough by a little. Numbers are nothing. Strength counts. Of course. A narrow chance. Or if the Hirebrand had known. Been ready. He could have prepared the tree-given it strength. They could have lived. Ah! I should have been here. They would not do this to wood in my care."
Once the fire began, Tuvor explained, the attackers simply shot arrows to prevent the flames from being put out-and waited for the desperate Woodhelvennin to attempt escape. Hence the line of unburned bodies
running southward; that was the direction taken by the sortie. Then, when the fire was too great for the Woodhelvennin to resist further, the ur-vile loremaster split the tree to destroy it utterly, and to shake any survivors from its limbs.
Again Birinair spoke. "He learned. Retribution. The fool-not master of his own power. The tree struck him down. Good wood. Even burning, it was not dead. The Hirebrand-a brave man. Struck back. And-and before the Desecration the lillianrill could have saved what life is left." He scowled as if he dared anyone to criticize him. "No more. This I cannot." But a moment later his imperiousness faded, and he turned sadly back to gaze on the ruined tree as if silently asking it to forgive him.
Covenant did not question Tuvor's analysis; he felt too sickened by the blood-thick reek around him. But Foamfollower did not seem affected in that way. Dully, he asserted, "This is not Drool's doing. No Cavewight is the master of such strategy. Winds and clouds to disguise the signs of attack, should any help be near. Iron protection carried here ,from who knows what distance. An attack with so little waste of resource. No, the hand of Soulcrusher is here from first to last. Stone and Sea!" Without warning, his voice caught, and he turned away, groaning his Giantish plainsong to steady himself.
Into the silence, Quaan asked, "But why here?" There was an edge like panic in his voice. "Why attack this place?"
Something in Quaan's tone, some hint of hysteria among brave but inexperienced, appalled young warriors, called Prothall back from the wilderland where his thoughts wandered. Responding to Quaan's emotion rather than to his question, the High Lord said sternly, "Warhaft Quaan, there is much work to be done. The horses will rest, but we must work. Burial must be dug for the dead. After their last ordeal, it would be unfitting to set them to the pyre. Put your Eoman to the task. Dig graves in the south glade-there." He indicated a spread of grass about a hundred feet from the riven tree.
"We-" he referred to his fellow Lords. "We will carry the dead to their graves."
Foamfollower interrupted his plainsong. "No. I will carry. Let me show my respect."
"Very well," Prothall replied. "We will prepare food and consider our situation." With a nod, he sent Quaan to give orders to the Eoman. Then, turning to Tuvor, he asked that sentries be posted. Tuvor observed that eight Bloodguard were not enough to watch every possible approach to an open area as large as the glade, but if he sent the Ranyhyn roaming separately around the bordering hills, he might not need to call on the Eoman for assistance. After a momentary pause, the First Mark asked what should be done about the missing scouts.
"We will wait," Prothall responded heavily.
Tuvor nodded, and moved away to communicate with the Ranyhyn. They stood in a group nearby, looking with hot eyes at the burned bodies around the tree. When Tuvor joined them, they clustered about him as if eager to do whatever he asked, and a moment later they charged out of the glade, scattering in all directions.
The Lords dismounted, unpacked the sacks of food, and set about preparing a meal on a small lillianrill fire Birinair built for them. Warriors took all the horses upwind from the tree, unsaddled and tethered them. Then the Eoman went to begin digging.
Taking great care not to step on any of the dead, Foamfollower moved toward the tree, reached the iron plate. It was immensely heavy, but he lifted it and carried it beyond the ring of bodies. There he began gently placing corpses on the plate, using it as a sled to move the bodies to their graves. Knots of emotion jumped and bunched across his buttressed forehead, and his eyes flared with a dangerous enthusiasm.
For a while, Covenant was the only member of the company without an assigned task. The fact disturbed him. The stench of the dead-Baradakas included somewhere among them, he thought achingly, Baradakas and Llaura and children, children!-made him remember Soaring Woodhelven as he had left it days ago: tall and proud, lush with the life of a fair people.
He needed something to do to defend himself.
As he scanned the company, he noticed that the warriors lacked digging tools. They had brought few picks and shovels with them; most of them were trying to dig with their hands or their swords. He walked over to the tree. Scattered around the trunk were many burned branches, some of them still solid in the core. Though he had to pick his way among the dead-though the close sight of all that flesh smeared like moldering wax over charred bones hurt his guts -he gathered branches that he could not break across his knee. These he carried away from the tree, then used his Stonedownor knife to scrape them clean and cut them into stakes. The work blackened his hands, his white robe, and the knife twisted awkwardly in his half-fingered grip, but he persisted.
The stakes he gave to the warriors, and with them they were able to dig faster. Instead of individual graves, they dug trenches, each deep and long enough to hold a dozen or more of the dead. Using Covenant's stakes, the warriors began to finish their graves faster than Foamfollower could fill them.
Late in the afternoon, Prothall called the company to eat. By that time, nearly half the bodies had been buried. No one felt like consuming food with their lungs full of acrid air and their eyes sore of-,tormented flesh, but the High Lord insisted. Covenant found this strange until he tasted the food. The Lords had prepared a stew unlike anything he had eaten in the Land. Its savor quickened his hunger, and when he swallowed it, it soothed his distress. It was the first meal he had had since the previous day, and he surprised himself by eating ravenously.
Most of the warriors were done eating, and the sun was about to set, when their attention was snatched erect by a distant hail. The southmost sentry answered, and a moment later the two missing Bloodguard came galloping into the glade. Their Ranyhyn were soaked with sweat.
They brought two people with them: a woman, and a boy-child the size of a four-year-old, both Woodhelvennin, both marked as if they had survived a battle.
The tale of the scouts was quickly told. They had reached the deserted glade, and had found the southward trail of the Woodhelvennin's attempted escape. And they had seen some evidence that all the people might not have been killed. Since the enemy had gone-so there was no compelling need to ride back to warn the Lords-they had decided to search for survivors. They had erased the signs, so that any returning marauders might not find them, and had ridden south.
Early in the afternoon, they found the woman and child fleeing madly without thought or caution. Both appeared injured; the child gave no sign of awareness at all, and the woman vacillated between lucidity and incoherence. She accepted the Bloodguard as friends, but was unable to tell them anything. However, in a lucid moment, she insisted that an Unfettered Healer lived a league or two away. Hoping to gain knowledge from the woman, the scouts took her to the cave of the Healer. But the cave was empty -and appeared to have been empty, for many days. So the scouts brought the two survivors back to Soaring Woodhelven.
The two stood before the Lords, the woman clutching the child's unresponsive hand. The boy gazed incuriously about him, but did not notice faces or react to voices. When his hand slipped from the woman's, his arm fell limply to his side; he neither resisted nor complied when she snatched it up again. His unfocused eyes seemed preternaturally dark, as if they were full of black blood.
The sight of him jabbed Covenant. The boy could have been the future of his own son, Roger-the son of whom he had been dispossessed, reft as if even his fatherhood had been abrogated by leprosy. Children! Foul? he panted. Children?
As if in oblique answer to his thoughts, the woman suddenly said, "He is Pietten son of Soranal. He likes the horses."
"It is true," one of the scouts responded. "He rode before me and stroked the Ranyhyn's neck."
But Covenant was not listening. He was looking at the woman. Confusedly, he sorted through the battle wreckage of her face, the cuts and burns and grime and bruises. Then he said hesitantly, "Llaura?"
The sun was setting, but there was no sunset. Clouds blanked the horizon, and a short twilight was turning rapidly into night. But as the sun fell, the air became thicker and more sultry, as if the darkness were sweating in apprehension.
"Yes, I know you," the woman said in a flagellated voice. "You are Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. In the semblance of Berek Halfhand. Jehannum spoke truth. Great evil has come." She articulated with extreme care, as if she were trying to balance her words on the edge of a sword. "I am Llaura daughter of Annamar, of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. Our scouts must have been slain. We had no warning. Be-"
But as she tried to say the words, her balance failed, and she collapsed into a hoarse, repeating moan-"Uhn, uhn, uhn, uhn"-as if the connection between her brain and her throat broke, leaving her struggling frantically with her inability to speak. Her eyes burned with furious concentration, and her head shook as she tried to form words. But nothing came between her juddering lips except, "Uhn, uhn, uhn."
The Bloodguard scout said, "So she was when we found her. At one moment, she can speak. A moment later, she cannot."
Hearing this, Llaura clenched herself violently and pushed down her hysteria, rejecting what the scout said. "I am Llaura," she repeated, "Llaura- of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. Our scouts must have been slain. I am Llaura, I am Llaura," she insisted. "Beware-" Again her voice broke into moaning, "Uhn, uhn."
Her panic mounted. "Be-uhn, uhn, uhn. Be- uhn, uhn. I am Llaura. You are the Lords. You must 1-uhn, uhn. Ambuhn, uhn, uhn." As she fought, Covenant glanced around the company. Everyone was staring intently at Llaura, and Variol and Tamarantha had tears in their eyes. "Somebody do something," he muttered painfully. "Somebody."
Abruptly, Llaura seemed to collapse. Clutching her throat with her free hand, she shrieked, "You must hear me!" and started to fall.
As. her knees gave way, Prothall stepped forward and caught her. With fierce strength, he gripped her upper arms and held her erect before him. "Stop," he commanded. "Stop. Do not speak anymore. Listen, and use your head to answer me."
A look of hope flared across Llaura's eyes, and she relaxed until Prothall set her on her feet. Then she regained the child's hand.
"Now," the High Lord said levelly, staring deep into her ravaged eyes. "You are not mad. Your mind is clear. Something has been done to you."
Llaura nodded eagerly, Yes.
"When your people attempted to escape, you were captured."
She nodded, Yes.
"You and the child."
Yes.
"And something was done to him as well?"
Yes.
"Do you know what it was?"
She shook her head, No.
"Was the same done to you both?"
No.
"Well," Prothall sighed. "Both were captured instead of slain. And the ur-vile loremaster afflicted you."
Llaura nodded, Yes, shuddering.
"Damaged you."
Yes.
"Caused the difficulty that you now have when you speak."
Yes!
"Now your ability to speak comes and goes."
No!
"No?"
Prothall paused to consider for a moment, and Covenant interjected, "Hellfire! Get her to write it down."
Llaura shook her head, raised her free hand. It trembled uncontrollably.
Abruptly, Prothall said, "Then there are certain things that you cannot say."
Yes!
"There is something that the attackers do not wish you to speak."
Yes!
"Then-" The High Lord hesitated as if he could hardly believe his thoughts. "Then the attackers knew that you would be found-by us or others who came too late to the aid of Soaring Woodhelven."
Yes!
"Therefore you fled south, toward Banyan Woodhelven and the Southron Stonedowns."
She nodded, but her manner seemed to indicate that he had missed the point.
Observing her, he muttered, "By the Seven! This cannot do. Such questioning requires time, and my heart tells me we have little. What has been done to the boy? How could the attackers know that we -or anyone- would come this way? What knowledge could she have? Knowledge that an ur-vile loremaster would fear to have told? No, we must find other means."
At the edge of his sight, Covenant saw Variol and Tamarantha setting out their blankets near the campfire. Their action startled him away from Llaura for a moment. Their eyes held a sad and curiously secret look. He could not fathom it, but for some reason it reminded him that they had known what Prothall's decision for the Quest would lie before that decision was made.
"High Lord," said Birinair stiffly.
Concentrating on Llaura, Prothall replied, "Yes?"
"That young whelp of a Gravelingas, Tohrm, gave me a rhadhamaerl gift. I almost thought he mocked me. Laughed because I am not a puppy like himself. It was hurtloam."
"Hurtloam?" Prothall echoed in surprise. "You have some?"
"Have it? Of course. No fool, you know. I keep' it moist. Tohrm tried to teach me. As if I knew nothing."
Mastering his impatience, Prothall said, "Please bring it."
A moment later, Birinair handed to the High Lord a small stoneware pot full of the damp, glittering clay -hurtloam. "Watch out," Covenant murmured with complex memories in his voice, "it'll put her to sleep." But Prothall did not hesitate. In darkness lit only by Birinair's lillianrill fire and the last coals of the riven tree, he scooped out some of the hurtloam. Its golden flecks caught the firelight and gleamed. Tenderly, he spread the mud across Llaura's forehead, cheeks, and throat.
Covenant was marginally aware that Lord Mhoram no longer attended Prothall and Llaura. He had joined Variol and Tamarantha, and appeared to be arguing with them. They lay side by side on their backs, holding hands, and he stood over them as if he were trying to ward off a shadow. But they were unmoved. Through his protests, Tamarantha said softly, "It is better thus, my son." And Variol murmured, "Poor Llaura. This is all we can do."
Covenant snapped a look around the company. The warriors seemed entranced by the questioning of the Heer, but Foamfollower's cavernous eyes flicked without specific focus over the glade as if they were weaving dangerous visions. Covenant turned back toward Llaura with an ominous chill scrabbling along his spine.
The first touch of the hurtloam only multiplied her distress. Her face tightened in torment, and a rictus like a foretaste of death stretched her lips into a soundless scream. But then a harsh convulsion shook her, and the crisis passed. She fell to her knees and wept with relief as if a knife had been removed from her mind.
Prothall knelt beside her and  clasped her in the solace of his arms, waiting without a word for her self-control to return. She needed a moment to put aside her weeping. Then she snatched herself up, crying, "Flee! You must flee! This is an ambush! You are trapped!"
But her warning came too late. At the same moment, Tuvor returned from his lookout at a run, followed almost at once by the other Bloodguard " "Prepare for attack," the First Mark said flatly. "We are surrounded. The Ranyhyn were cut off, and could not warn us. There will be battle. We have only time to prepare."
Covenant could not grasp the immediacy of what he heard. Prothall barked orders; the camp began to clear. Warriors and Bloodguard dove into the still empty trenches, hid themselves in the hollow base of the tree. "Leave the horses," Tuvor commanded. "The Ranyhyn will break through to protect them if it is possible." Prothall consigned Llaura and the child to Foamfollower, who placed them alone in a grave and covered them with the iron plate. Then Prothall and Mhoram jumped together into the southmost trench. But Covenant stood where he was. Vaguely, he watched Birinair reduce the campfire to its barest embers, then position himself against the burned trunk of the tree. Covenant needed time to comprehend what had been done to Llaura. Her plight numbed him.
First she had been given knowledge which might have saved the Lords-and then she had been made unable to communicate that knowledge. And her struggles to give the warning only ensured her failure by guaranteeing that the Lords would attempt to understand her rather than ride away. Yet what had been done to her was unnecessary, gratuitous; the trap would have succeeded without it. In every facet of her misery, Covenant could hear Lord Foul laughing.
Bannor's touch on his shoulder jarred him. The Bloodguard said as evenly as if he were announcing the time of day, "Come, ur-Lord. You must conceal yourself. It is necessary."
Necessary? Silently, Covenant began to shout, Do you know what he did to her?
But when he turned, he saw Variol and Tamarantha
still lying by the last embers of the fire, protected by only two Bloodguard. What-? he gaped. They'll be killed!
At the same time, another part of his brain insisted, He's doing the same thing to me. Exactly the same thing. To Bannor he groaned, "Don't touch me. Hellfire and bloody damnation. Aren't you ever going to learn?"
Without hesitation, Bannor lifted Covenant, swung him around, and dropped him into one of the trenches. There was hardly room for him; Foamfollower filled the rest of the grave, squatting to keep his head down. But Bannor squeezed into the trench after Covenant, positioned himself with his arms free over the Unbeliever.
Then a silence full of the aches and quavers of fear fell over the camp. At last, the apprehension of the attack caught up with Covenant. His heart lurched; sweat bled from his forehead; his nerves shrilled as if they had been laid bare. A gray nausea that filled his throat like dirt almost made him gag. He tried to swallow -it away, and could not. No! he panted. Not like this. I will not!
Exactly the same, exactly what happened to Llaura.
A hungry shriek ripped the air. After it came the tramp of approach. Covenant risked a glance over the rim of the grave, and saw the glade surrounded by black forms and hot laval eyes. They moved slowly, giving the encamped figures a chance to taste their own end. And flapping heavily overhead just behind the advancing line was the dark shape of a beast.
Covenant recoiled. In fear, he watched the attack like an outcast, from a distance.
As the Cavewights and ur-viles contracted their ring around the glad centered their attack on the helpless campsite the wall of them thickened, reducing at every step the chance that the company might be able to break through their ranks. Slowly their approach became louder; they stamped the ground as if they were trying to crush the grass. And a low wind of mutterings became audible-soft snarls, hissings through clenched teeth, gurgling, gleeful salivations -blew over the graves like an exhalation littered with the wreckage of mangled lives. The Cavewights gasped like lunatics tortured into a love of killing; the nasal sensing of the ur-viles sibilated wetly. And behind the other sounds, terrible in their quietness, came the wings of a grin, drumming a dirge.
The tethered horses began to scream. The stark terror of the sound pulled Covenant up, and he looked long enough to see that the mustangs were not harmed. The tightening ring parted to bypass them, and a few Cavewights dropped from the attack to unfetter them, lead them away. The horses fought hysterically, but the strength of the Cavewights mastered them.
Then the attackers were less than a hundred feet from the graves. Covenant cowered down as far as he could. He hardly dared to breathe. The whole company was helpless in the trenches.
The next, moment, a howl went up among the attackers. Several Cavewights cried, "Only five?"
"All those horses?"
"Cheated!"
In rage at the puny number of their prey, nearly a third of them broke ranks and charged the campfire.
Instantly, the company seized its chance.
The Ranyhyn whinnied. Their combined call throbbed in the air like the shout of trumpets. Together they thundered out of the east toward the captured horses.
Birinair stepped away from the riven tree. With a full swing of his staff and a cry, he struck the burned wood. The tree erupted in flames, threw dazzling light at the attackers.
Prothall and Mhoram sprang together from the southmost trench. Their staffs flared with blue Lordsfire. Crying, "Melenkurion!" they drove their power against the creatures. The nearest Cavewights and ur-viles retreated in fear from the flames.
Warriors and Bloodguard leaped out of the graves, sprinted from the hollow of the tree.
And behind them -came the towering form of Saltheart Foamfollower, shouting a rare Giantish war call.
With cries of fear and rage, fire, swift blows and clashing weapons, the battle began.
The company was outnumbered ten to one.
Jerking his gaze from scene to scene, Covenant saw how the fighting commenced. The Bloodguard deployed themselves instantly, two to defend each Lord, with one standing by Birinair and another, Bannor, warding the trench where Covenant stood. The warriors rapidly formed groups of five. Guarding each other's backs, they strove to cut their way in and out of the line of the attackers. Mhoram charged around the fight, trying to find the commanders or loremasters of the enemy. Prothall stood in the center of the battle to give the company a rallying point. He shouted warnings and orders about him.
But Foamfollower fought alone. He rampaged through the attack like a berserker, pounding with his fists, kicking, throwing anything within reach. His war call turned into one long, piercing snarl of fury; his huge strides kept him in the thick of the fighting. At first, he looked powerful enough to handle the entire host alone. But soon the great strength of the Cavewights made itself felt. They jumped at him in bunches; four of them were able to bring him down. He was up again in an instant, flinging bodies about him like dolls. But it was clear that, if enough Cavewights attacked him together, he would be lost.
Variol and Tamarantha were in no- less danger. They lay motionless under the onslaught, and their four Bloodguard strove extravagantly to preserve them. Some of the attackers risked arrows; the Bloodguard knocked the shafts aside with the backs of their hands. Spears followed, and then the Cavewights charged with swords and staves. Weaponless and unaided, the Bloodguard fought back with speed, balance, skill, with perfectly placed kicks and blows. They seemed impossibly successful. Soon a small ring of dead and unconscious Cavewights encircled the two Lords. But like Foamfollower they were vulnerable, would have to be vulnerable, to a concerted assault.
At Prothall's order, one group of warriors moved to help the four Bloodguard.
Covenant looked away.
He found Mhoram waging a weird contest with thirty or forty ur-viles. All the ur-viles in the attack they were few in proportion to the Cavewights-had formed a fighting wedge behind their tallest member, their loremaster-a wedge which allowed them to focus their whole power in the leader. The loremaster wielded a scimitar with a flaming blade, and against it Mhoram opposed his fiery staff. The clashing of power showered hot sparks that dazzled and singed the air.
Then a swirl of battle swept toward Covenant's trench. Figures leaped over him; Bannor fought like a dervish to ward off spears. A moment later, a warrior came to his aid. She was the Woodhelvennin who had assigned herself to Covenant. She and Bannor struggled to keep him alive.
He clutched his hands to his chest as if to protect his ring. His fingers unconsciously took hold of the metal.
Through the dark flash of legs, he caught a glimpse of Prothall, saw that the High Lord was under attack. Using his blazing staff like a lance, he strove with the griffin. The beast's wings almost buffeted him from his feet, but he kept his position and jabbed his blue fire upward. But astride the griffin sat another ur-vile loremaster. The creature used a black stave to block the High Lord's thrusts.
As Covenant watched, the desperation of the conflict mounted. Figures fell and rose and fell again. Blood spattered down on him. Across the glade, Foamfollower heaved to his feet from under a horde of Cavewights, and was instantly, deluged. Prothall fell to one knee under the combined force of his assailants. The ur-vile wedge drove Mhoram steadily backward; the two Bloodguard with him were hard pressed to protect his back.
Covenant's throat felt choked with sand.
Already, two warriors had fallen among the Cavewights around Variol and Tamarantha. At one instant, a Bloodguard found himself, and Tamarantha behind him, attacked simultaneously by three Cavewights with spears. The Bloodguard broke the first spear with a chop of his hand, and leaped high over the second to kick its wielder in the face. But even his great speed was not swift enough. The third Cavewight caught him by the arm. Grappling at once, the first latched his long fingers onto the Bloodguard's ankle. The two stretched their captive between them, and their companion jabbed his spear at the Bloodguard's belly.
Covenant watched, transfixed with helplessness, as the Bloodguard strained against the Cavewights, pulled them close enough together to wrench himself out of the path of the spear. Its tip scored his back. The next instant, he groined both his captors. They dropped him, staggered back. He hit the ground and rolled. But the middle Cavewight caught him with a kick so hard that it flung him away from Tamarantha.
Yelling his triumph, the Cavewight lunged forward with his spear raised high in both hands to impale the recumbent Lord.
Tamarantha!
Her peril overwhelmed Covenant's fear. Without thinking, he vaulted from the safety of his trench and started toward her. She was so old and frail that he could not restrain himself.
The Woodhelvennin yelled, "Down!" His sudden appearance aboveground distracted her, gave her opponents a target. As a result, she missed a parry, and a sword thrust opened her side. But Covenant did not see her. He was already running toward Tamarantha-and already too late.
The Cavewight drove his spear downward.
At the last instant, the Bloodguard saved Tamarantha by diving across her and catching the spear in his own back.
Covenant hurled himself at the Cavewight and tried to stab it with his stone knife. The blade twisted in his halfhand; he only managed to scratch the creature's shoulder blade.
The knife fell from his wrenched fingers.
The Cavewight whirled and struck him to the ground with a slap. The blow stunned him for a moment, but Bannor rescued him by attacking the creature. The Cavewight countered as if elevated, inspired, by his success against the dead Bloodguard. He shrugged off Bannor's blows, caught him in his long strong arms and began to squeeze. Bannor struck at the Cavewight's ears and eyes, but the maddened creature only tightened his grip.
Inchoate rage roared in Covenant's ears. Still half dazed, he stumbled toward Tamarantha's still form and snatched her staff from her side. She made no movement, and he asked no permission. Turning, he wheeled the staff wildly about his head and brought it down with all his strength on the back of the Cavewight's skull.
White and crimson power flashed in a silent explosion. The Cavewight fell instantly dead.
The ignition blinded Covenant for a moment. But he recognized the sick red hue of the flare. As his eyes cleared, he gaped at his hands, at his ring. He could not remember having removed it from the clingor on his chest. But it hung on his wedding finger and throbbed redly under the influence of the cloudlocked moon.
Another Cavewight loomed out of the battle at him. Instinctively, he hacked with the staff at the creature. It collapsed in a bright flash that was entirely crimson.
At the sight, his old fury erupted. His mind went blank with violence. Howling, "Foul!" as if the Despiser were there before him, he charged into the thick of the fray. Flailing about him like madness, he struck down another Cavewight, and another, and another. But he did not watch where he was going. After the third blow he fell into one of the trenches. Then for a long time he lay in the grave like a dead man. When he finally climbed to his feet, he was trembling with revulsion.
Above him, the battle burned feverishly. He could not judge how many of the attackers had been killed or disabled. But some turning point had been reached; the company had changed its tactics. Prothall fled from the griffin to Foamfollower's aid. And when the Giant regained his feet, he turned, dripping blood, to fight the griffin while Prothall joined Mhoram against the ur-viles. Bannor held himself over Covenant; but Quaan marshaled the survivors of his Eoman to make a stand around Variol and Tamarantha.
A moment later, the Ranyhyn gave a ringing call. Having freed the horses, they charged into the battle. And as their hooves and teeth crashed among the Cavewights, Prothall and Mhoram together swung their flaming staffs to block the loremaster's downstroke. Its hot scimitar shattered into fragments of lava, and the backlash of power felled the ur-vile itself. Instantly, the creatures shifted their wedge to present a new leader. But their strongest had fallen, and they began to give way.
On the other side of the battle, Foamfollower caught the griffin by surprise. The beast was harrying the warriors around Variol and Tamarantha. With a roar, Foamfollower sprang into the air and wrapped his arms in a death hug around the body of the griffin. His weight bore it to the ground; they rolled and struggled on the blood-slick grass. The riding ur-vile was thrown off, and Quaan beheaded it before it could raise its stave.
The griffin yowled hideously with rage and pain, tried to twist in Foamfollower's grip to reach him with its claws and fangs. But he squeezed it with all his might, silently braced himself against its thrashings and strove to kill it before it was able to turn and rend him.
For the most part, he succeeded. He exerted a furious jerk of pressure, and heard bones retort' loudly in the beast's back. The griffin spat a final scream, and died. For a moment, he rested beside its body, panting hoarsely. Then he lumbered to his feet. His forehead had been clawed open to the bone.
But he did not stop. Dashing blood from his eyes, he ran and threw himself full-length onto the tight wedge of the urviles. Their formation crumbled under the impact.
At once, the ur-viles chose to flee. Before Foamfollower could get to his feet, they were gone, vanished into the darkness.
Their defection seemed to drain the Cavewights' mad courage. The gangrel creatures were no longer able to brave the Lords-fire. Panic spread among them from the brandished staffs, flash-firing in the sudden tinder of their hearts.
A cry of failure broke through the attack. The Cavewights began to run.
Howling their dismay, they scattered away from the blazing tree. They ran with grotesque jerkings of their knuckled joints, but their strength and length of limb gave them speed. In moments, the last of them had fled the glade.
Foamfollower charged after them. Yelling Giantish curses, he chased the fleers as if he meant to crush them all underfoot. Swiftly, he disappeared into the darkness, and soon he could no longer be heard. But from time to time there came faint screams through the night, as he caught escaping Cavewights.
Tuvor asked Prothall if some of the Bloodguard should join Foamfollower, but the High Lord shook his head. "We have done enough," he panted. "Remember the Oath of Peace."
For a time of exhaustion and relief, the company stood in silence underscored by the gasp of their breathing and the groans of the disabled Cavewights. No one moved; to Covenant's ears, the silence sounded like a prayer. Unsteadily, he pulled himself out of the trench. Looking about him with glazed eyes, he took the toll of the battle.
Cavewights sprawled around the camp in twisted heaps-nearly a hundred of them, dead, dying, and unconscious-and their blood lay everywhere like a dew of death. There were ten ur-viles dead. Five warriors would not ride again with their Eoman, and none of Quaan's command had escaped injury. But of the Bloodguard only one had fallen.
With a groan that belied his words, High Lord Prothall said, "We are fortunate."
"Fortunate?" Covenant echoed in vague disbelief.
"We are fortunate." An accent of anger emphasized the old rheumy rattle of Prothall's voice. "Consider that we might all have died. Consider such an attack during the full of the moon. Consider that while Drool's thoughts are turned here, he is not multiplying defenses in Mount Thunder. We have paid his voice choked for a moment "paid but little for our lives and hope."
Covenant did not reply for a moment. Images of violence dizzied him. All the Woodhelvennin were dead-Cavewights-urviles-the warrior who had chosen to watch over him. He did not even know her name. Foamfollower had killed-he himself had killed five-five.
He was trembling, but he needed to speak, needed to defend himself. He was sick with horror.
"Foamfollower's right," he rasped hoarsely. "This is Foul's doing."
No one appeared to hear him. The Bloodguard went to the Ranyhyn and brought their - fallen comrade's mount close to the fire. Lifting the man gently, they set him on the Ranyhyn's back and bound him in place with clingor thongs. Then together they gave a silent salute, and the Ranyhyn galloped away, bearing its dead rider toward the Westron Mountains and Guards Gap-home.
"Foul planned the whole thing."
When the Ranyhyn had vanished into the night, some of the Bloodguard tended the injuries of their mounts, while others resumed their sentry duty.
Meanwhile, the warriors began moving among the Cavewights, finding the living among the dead. All that were not mortally wounded were dragged to their feet and chased away from the camp. The rest were piled on the north side of the tree for a pyre.
"It means two things." Covenant strove to master the quaver in his voice. "It's the same thing that he's doing to me. It's a lesson-like what happened to Llaura. Foul is telling us what he's doing to us because he's sure that knowing won't help. He wants to milk us for all the despair we're worth."
With the aid of two warriors, Prothall released Llaura and Pietten from their tomb. Llaura looked exhausted to the limit; she was practically prostrate on her feet. But little Pietten ran his hands over the blood-wet grass, then licked his fingers.
Covenant turned away with a groan. "The other thing is that Foul really wants us to get at Drool. To die or not. He tricked Drool into this attack so that he wouldn't be busy defending himself. So Foul must know what we're doing, even if Drool doesn't."
Prothall seemed troubled by the occasional distant screams, but Mhoram did not notice them. While the rest of the company set about their tasks, the Lord went and knelt beside Variol and Tamarantha. He bent over his parents, and under his red-stained robe his body was rigid.
"I tell you, this is all part of Foul's plan. Hellfire! Aren't you listening to me?"
Abruptly, Mhoram stood and faced Covenant. He moved as if he were about to hurl a curse at Covenant's head. But his eyes bled with tears, and his voice wept as he said, "They are dead. Variol and Tamarantha my parents-father and mother of me, body and soul."
Covenant could see the hue of death on their old skin.
"It cannot be!" one of the warriors cried. "I saw. No weapon touched them. They were kept by the Bloodguard."
Prothall hastened to examine the two Lords. He touched their hearts and heads, then sagged and sighed, "Nevertheless."
Both Variol and Tamarantha were smiling.
The warriors stopped what they were doing; in silence, the Eoman put aside its own fatigue and grief to stand bowed in respect before Mhoram and his dead. Stooping, Mhoram lifted both Variol and Tamarantha in his arms. Their thin bones were light
in his embrace, as if they had lost the weight of mortality. On his cheeks, tears gleamed orangely, but his shoulders were steady, un-sob-shaken, to uphold his parents.
Covenant's mind was beclouded. He wandered in mist, and his words were wind-torn from him. "Do you mean to tell me that we-that I-we-? For a couple of corpses?"
Mhoram showed no sign of having heard. But a scowl passed like a spasm across Prothall's face, and Quaan stepped to the Unbeliever's side at once, gripped his elbow, whispered into his ear, "If you speak again, I will break your arm."
"Don't touch me," Covenant returned. But his voice was forceless. He submitted, swirling in lost fog. , Around him, the company took on an attitude of ritual. Leaving his staff with one of the warriors, High Lord Prothall retrieved the staffs of the dead Lords and held them like an offering across his arms. And Mhoram turned toward the blaze of the tree with Variol and Tamarantha clasped erect in his embrace. The silence quivered painfully. After a long moment, he began to sing. His rough song sighed like a river, and he sang hardly louder than the flow of water between quiet banks.
Death reaps the beauty of the world-
bundles old crops to hasten new.
Be still, heart:
hold peace.
Growing is better than decay:
I hear the blade which severs life from life.
Be still, peace:
hold heart.
Death is passing on-
the making way of life and time for life.
Hate dying and killing, not death.
Be still, heart:
make no expostulation.
Hold peace and grief
and be still.
As he finished, his shoulders lurched as if unable to bear their burden without giving at least one sob to the dead. "Ah, Creator!" he cried in a voice full of bereavement. "How can I honor them? I am stricken at heart, and consumed with the work that I must do. You must honor them-for they have honored you."
At the edge of the firelight, the Ranyhyn Hynaril gave a whinny like a cry of grief. The great roan mare reared and pawed the air with her forelegs, then whirled and galloped away eastward.
Then Mhoram murmured again,
Be still, heart:
make no expostulation.
Hold peace and grief
and be still.
Gently, he laid Variol on the grass and lifted Tamarantha in both arms. Calling hoarsely, "Hail!" he placed her into the cleft of the burning tree. And before the flames could blacken her age-etched skin, he lifted Variol and set him beside her, calling again, "Hail!" Their shared smile could be seen for a moment before the blaze obscured it. So they lay together in consummation.
Already dead, Covenant groaned. That Bloodguard was killed. Oh, Mhoram! In his confusion, he could not distinguish between grief and anger.
His eyes now dry, Mhoram turned to the company, and his gaze seemed to focus on Covenant. "My friends, be still at heart," he said comfortingly. "Hold peace for all your grief. Variol and Tamarantha are ended. Who could deny them? They knew the time of their death. They read the close of their lives in the ashes of Soaring Woodhelven, and were glad to serve us with their last sleep. They chose to draw the attack upon themselves so that we might live. Who will say that the challenge which they met was not great? Remember the Oath, and hold Peace."
Together, the Eoman made the heart-opening salute of farewell, arms spread wide as if uncovering their hearts to the dead. Then Quaan cried, "Hail!" and led his warriors back to the work of piling Cavewights and burying Woodhelvennin.
After the Eoman had left, High Lord Prothall said to Mhoram, "Lord Variol's staff. From father to son. Take it. If we survive this Quest to reach a time of peace, master it. It has been the staff of a High Lord."
Mhoram accepted it with a bow.
Prothall paused for a moment, irresolute, then turned to Covenant. "You have used Lord Tamarantha's staff. Take it for use again. You will find it readier to aid your ring than your Hirebrand's staff. The lillianrill work in other ways than the Lords, and you are ur-Lord, Thomas Covenant."
Remembering the red blaze which had raged out of that wood to kill and kill, Covenant said, "Burn it."
A touch of danger tightened Mhoram's glance. But Prothall shrugged gently, took Lord Tamarantha's staff to the fire, and placed it into the cleft of the tree.
For an instant, the metal ends of the staff shone as if they were made of verdigris. Then Mhoram cried, "Ware the tree!" Quickly, the company moved away from the fiery spars.
The staff gave a sharp report like the bursting of bonds. Blue flame detonated in the cleft, and the riven tree dropped straight to the ground in fragments, collapsing as if its core had been finally killed. The heap of wood burned furiously.
From a distance, Covenant heard Birinair snort, "The Unbeliever's doing," as if that were a calumny.
Don't touch me, he muttered to himself.
He was afraid to think. Around him, darkness lurked like vulture wings made of midnight. Horrors threatened; he felt ghoul-begotten. He could not bear the bloodiness of his ring, could not bear what he had become. He searched about him as if he were looking for a fight.
Unexpectedly, Saltheart Foamfollower returned.
He shambled out of the night like a massacre metaphored in flesh-an icon of slaughter. He was everywhere smeared in blood, and much of it was his own. The wound on his forehead covered his face with a dark, wet sheen, and through the stain his deep eyes looked sa

Eighteen: The Plains of Ra


DESPITE the battleground-despite the acrid smoke of flame and flesh and power-despite the nearby trenches, where the dead were graved like lumps of charred agony, piled wearily into the earth like accumulated pain for which only the ground could now find use or surcease-despite his own inner torn and trampled ground-Covenant slept. For what was left of the night, the other survivors of the battle labored to bury or burn the various dead, but Covenant slept. Restless unconsciousness arose from within him like a perpetually enumerated VSE, and he spent his repose telling in dreams that rigid round: left arm shoulder to wrist, left hand palm and back, each finger, right arm, shirt, chest, left leg.
He awoke to meet a dawn which wore the aspect of an uncomfortable tomb. Shuddering himself to his feet, he found that all the work of burying was done; each of the trenches was filled, covered with dirt, and planted with a sapling which Birinair had found somewhere. Now most of the warriors lay awkwardly on the ground, in fatigue searching themselves for some kind of strength. But Prothall and Mhoram were busy cooking a meal, and the Bloodguard were examining and readying the horses.
A spate of disgust crossed Covenant's face-disgust that he had not done his share of the work. He looked at his robe; the samite was stiff and black with encrusted blood. Fit apparel for a leper, he thought, an outcast.
He knew that it was past time for him to make a decision. He had to determine where he stood in his impossible dilemma. Propped on his staff in the sepulchral dawn, he felt that he had reached the end of his evasions. He had lost track of his self-protective habits, lost the choice of hiding his ring, lost even his tough boots-and he had shed blood. He had brought down doom on Soaring Woodhelven. He had been so preoccupied with his flight from madness that he had not faced the madness toward which his fleeing took him.
He had to keep moving; he had learned that. But going on posed the same impenetrable problem. Participate, and go mad. Or refuse to participate, and go mad. He had to make a decision, -find bedrock somewhere and cling to it. He could not accept the Land- and could not deny it. He needed an answer. Without it, he would be trapped like Llaura-forced to the tune of Foul's glee to lose himself in order to avoid losing himself.
Then Mhoram looked up from his stirring and saw the disgust and dismay on Covenant's face. Gently, the Lord said, "What troubles you, my friend?"
For a moment, Covenant stared at Mhoram. The Lord looked as if he had become old overnight. The smoke and dirt of battle marked his face, accentuating the lines on his forehead and around his eyes like a sudden aggravation of wear and decay. His eyes seemed dulled by fatigue. But his lips retained their kindness, and his movements, though draped in such a rent and bloodied robe, were steady.
Covenant flinched instinctively away from the tone in which Mhoram said, my friend. He could not afford to be anyone's friend. And he flinched away, too, from his impulse to ask what had caused Tamarantha's staff to become so violent in his hands. He feared the answer to that question. To cover his wincing, he turned roughly away, and went in search of Foamfollower.
The Giant was sitting with his back to the last standing, extinguished fragment of Soaring Woodhelven. Grime and blood darkened his face; his skin had the color of a flaw in the heart of a tree. But the wound on his forehead dominated his appearance. Ripped flesh hung over his brows like a foliage of pain, and through the wound; drops of new blood seeped as if red thoughts were making their way from a crack in his skull. He had his right arm wrapped around his great jug of diamondraught, and his eyes followed Llaura as she tended little Pietten.
Covenant approached the Giant; but before he could speak, Foamfollower said, "Have you considered them? Do you know what has been done to them?"
The question raised black echoes in Covenant's mind. "I know about her."
"And Pietten? Tiny Pietten? A child?"
Covenant shrugged awkwardly.
"Think, Unbeliever!" His voice was full, of swirling mists. "I am lost. You can understand."
With an effort, Covenant replied, "The same thing. Just exactly what's been done to us. And to Llaura." A moment later he added mordantly, "And to the Cavewights." Foamfollower's eyes shied, and Covenant went on, "We're all going to destroy-whatever we want to preserve. The essence of Foul's method. Pietten is a present to us-an example of what we're going to do to the Land when we try to save it. Foul is that confident. And prophecies like that are self fulfilling."
At this, Foamfollower stared at Covenant as if the Unbeliever had just laid a curse on him. Covenant tried to hold the Giant's eyes, but an unexpected shame made him drop his head. He looked at the power scorched grass. The burning of the grass was curious. Some patches did not look as wrong as others-apparently Lords-fire did less essential damage than the might of the ur-viles.
After a moment, Foamfollower said, "You forget that there is a difference between a prophet and a seer. Seeing the future is not prophecy."
Covenant did not want to think about it. To get away from the subject, he demanded, "Why didn't you get some of that hurtloam for your forehead?"
This time, Foamfollower's eyes turned away. Distantly, he said, "There was none left." His hands opened and closed in a gesture of helplessness. "Others were dying. And others needed the hurtloam to save their arms or legs. And-" His voice stumbled momentarily. "And I thought tiny Pietten might be helped. He is only a child," he insisted, looking up suddenly with an appeal that Covenant could not understand. "But one of the Cavewights was dying slowly-in such pain." A new trickle of blood broke open in his forehead and began to drip from his brow. "Stone and Sea!" he moaned. "I could not endure it. Hearthrall Birinair kept aside a touch of hurtloam for me, from all the wounds to be treated. But I gave it to the Cavewight. Not to Pietten-to the Cavewight. Because of the pain."
Abruptly, he put back his head and took a long pull of diamondraught. With the heel of his palm he wiped roughly at the blood on his brows.
Covenant gazed intently at the Giant's wracked visage. Because he could find no other words for his sympathy, he asked, "How're your hands?"
"My hands?" Foamfollower seemed momentarily confused, but then he remembered. "Ah, the caamora. My friend, I am a Giant," he explained. "No ordinary fire can harm me. But the pain-the pain teaches many things." A flinch of self disgust crossed his lips. "It is said that the Giants are made of granite," he mumbled. "Do not be concerned for me."
On an impulse, Covenant responded, "In parts of the world where I come from, there are little old ladies who sit by the side of the road pounding away all day on hunks of granite with little iron hammers. It takes a long time-but eventually they turn big pieces into little pieces."
Foamfollower considered briefly before asking, "Is that prophecy, ur-Lord Covenant?"
"Don't ask me. I wouldn't know a prophecy if it fell on me."
"Nor would I," said Foamfollower. A dim smile tinged his mouth.
Shortly, Lord Mhoram called the company to the meal he and Prothall had prepared. Through a haze of suppressed groans, the warriors pried themselves to their feet and moved toward the fire. Foamfollower lurched upright. He and Covenant followed Llaura and Pietten to get something to eat.
The sight and smell of food suddenly brought Covenant's need for decision to a head. He was empty, hollow with hunger, but when he reached out to take some bread, he saw how his arm was befouled with blood and ashes. He had killed- The bread dropped from his fingers. This is all wrong, he murmured. Eating was a form of acquiescence-a submission to the physical actuality of the Land. He could not afford it.
I've got to think.
The emptiness in him ached with demands, but he refused them. He took a drink of springwine to clear his throat, then turned away from the fire with a gesture of rejection. The Lords and Foamfollower looked after him inquiringly, but made no comment.
He needed to put himself to the test, discover an answer that would restore his ability to survive. With a grimace, he resolved to go hungry until he found what he required. Perhaps in hunger he would become lucid enough to solve the fundamental contradiction of his dilemma.
All the abandoned weapons had been cleared from the glade, gathered into a pile. He went to it and searched until he found Atiaran's stone knife. Then, on an obscure impulse, he walked over to the horses to see if Dura had been injured. When he learned that she was unscathed, he felt a vague relief. He did not want under any circumstances to be forced to ride a Ranyhyn.
A short time later, the warriors finished their meal. Wearily, they moved to take up the Quest again.
As Covenant mounted Dura, he heard the Bloodguard whistle sharply for the Ranyhyn. The call seemed to hang in the air for a moment. Then, from various directions around the glade, the great horses came galloping-manes and tails flaring as if afire, hooves pounding in long, mighty, trip-rhythmed strides -nine star-browed chargers as swift and elemental as the life-pulse of the Land. Covenant could hear in their bold nickering the excitement of going home, toward the Plains of Ra.
But the Questers who left dead Soaring Woodhelven that morning had little of the bold or home-going in their attitudes. Quaan's Eoman was now six warriors short, and the survivors were gaunt with weariness and battle. They seemed to carry their shadows in their faces as they rode north toward the Mithil River. The riderless horses they took with them to provide relief for the weaker mounts. Among them, Saltheart Foamfollower trudged as if he were carrying the weight of all the dead. In the crook of one arm he cradled Pietten, who had fallen asleep as soon as the sun cleared the eastern horizon. Llaura rode behind Lord
Mhoram, gripping the sides of his robe. She appeared bent and frail behind his grim-set face and erect posture; but he shared with her an eroded expression, an air of inarticulate grief. Ahead of them moved Prothall, and his shoulders bespoke the same kind of inflexible will which Atiaran had used to make Covenant walk from Mithil Stonedown to the Soulsease River.
Vaguely, Covenant wondered how much farther he would have to follow other people's choices. But he let the thought go and looked at the Bloodguard. They were the only members of the company who did not appear damaged by the battle. Their short robes hung in tatters; they were as filthy as anyone; one of their number had been killed, and several were injured. They had defended the Lords, especially Variol and Tamarantha, to the utmost; but the Bloodguard were unworn and undaunted, free of rue. Bannor rode his prancing, reinless Ranyhyn beside Covenant, and gazed about him with an impervious eye.
The horses of the company could manage only a slow, stumbling walk, but even that frail pace brought the riders to the ford of the Mithil before noon. Leaving their mounts to drink or graze, all of them except the Bloodguard plunged into the stream. Scrubbing at themselves with fine sand from the river bottom, they washed the blood and grit and pain of death and long night into the wide current of the Mithil. Clear skin and eyes reappeared from under the smears of battle; minor un-hurtloamed wounds opened and bled clean; scraps of shredded clothing floated out of reach. Among them, Covenant beat his robe clean, rubbed and scratched stains from his flesh as if he were trying to rid himself of the effects of killing. And he drank quantities of water in an effort to appease the aching hollowness of his hunger.
Then, when the warriors were done, they went to their horses to get new clothing from their saddlebags. After they had dressed and regained command of their weapons, they posted themselves as sentries while First Mark Tuvor and the Bloodguard bathed.
The Bloodguard managed to enter and leave the
river without splashing, and they washed noiselessly. In a few moments, they were dressed in new robes and mounted on the Ranyhyn. The Ranyhyn had refreshed themselves by crossing into Andelain and rolling on the grass while their riders bathed. Now the company was ready to travel. High Lord Prothall gave the signal, and - the company rode away eastward along the south bank of the river.
The rest of the day was easy for the riders and their mounts. There was soft grass underhoof, clean water at one side, a tang of vitality in the air, and a nearby view of Andelain itself, which seemed to pulse with robust sap. The people of the Land drew healing from the ambience of the Hills. But the day was hard for Covenant. He was hungry, and the vital presence of Andelain only made him hungrier.
He kept his gaze away from it as best he could, refusing the sight as he had refused food. His gaunt face was set in stern lines, and his eyes were hollow with determination. He followed a double path: his flesh rode Dura doggedly, keeping his position in the company; but in his mind, he wandered in chasms, and their dark, empty inanition hurt him.
I will not.
He wanted to survive.
I am not.
From time to time, aliantha lay directly in his path like a personal appeal from the Land, but he did not succumb.
Covenant, he thought. Thomas Covenant. Unbeliever. Leper outcast unclean. When a pang from his hunger made him waver, he remembered Drool's bloody grip on his ring, and his resolve steadied.
From time to time, Llaura looked at him with the death of Soaring Woodhelven in her eyes, but he only clenched himself harder and rode on.
I won't do any more killing.
He had to have some other answer.
That night, he found that a change had come over his ring. Now all evidence that it resisted red encroachments was gone. His wedding band burned completely crimson under the dominion of the moon,
flaming coldly on his hand as if in greedy response to Drool's power. The next morning, he began the day's riding like a man torn between opposing poles of insanity.
But there was a foretaste of summer in the noon breeze. The air turned warm and redolent with the ripeness of the earth. The flowers had a confident bloom, and the birds sang languidly. Gradually, Covenant grew full of lassitude. Languor loosened the strings of his will. Only the habit of riding kept him on Dura's back; he became numb to such superficial considerations. He hardly noticed when the river began to curve northward away from the company, or when the hills began to climb higher. He moved blankly on the warm currents of the day. That night he slept deeply, dreamlessly, and the next day he rode on in numbness and unconcern.
Waking slumber held him. It was a wilderland that he wandered unaware; he was in danger without knowing it. Lassitude was the first step in an inexorable. logic, the law of leprosy. The next was gangrene, a stink of rotting live flesh so terrible that even some physicians could not bear it-a stench which ratified the outcasting of lepers in a way no mere compassion or unprejudice could oppose. But Covenant traveled his dream with his mind full of sleep.
When he began to recover-early in the afternoon of the third day from Soaring Woodhelven, the eighteenth since the company had left Revelstone-he found himself looking over Morinmoss Forest. The company stood on the last hilltop before the land fell under the dark aegis of the trees.
Morinmoss lay at the foot of the hill like a lapping sea; its edges gripped the hillsides as if the trees had clenched their roots in the slopes and refused to be driven back. The dark, various green of the Forest spread to the horizon north and east and south. It had a forbidding look; it seemed to defy the Quest to pass through it. High Lord Prothall stopped on the crest of the hill, and gazed for a long time over the Forest, weighing the time needed to ride around Morinmoss against the obscure dangers of the trees.
Finally, he dismounted. He looked over the riders, and his eyes were full of potential anger as he spoke. "We will rest now. Then we will ride into Morinmoss, and will not stop until we have reached the far side -a journey of nearly a day and a night. During that ride, we must show neither blade nor spark. Hear you? All swords sheathed, all arrows quivered, all knives cloaked, all spear tips bound. And every spark or gleam of fire quenched. I will have no mistake. Morinmoss is wilder than Grimmerdhore-and none go unanxious into that wood. The trees have suffered for ages, and they do not forget their kinship with Garroting Deep. Pray that they do not - crush us all, regardless." He paused, scanning the company until he was sure that all understood him. Then he added more gently, "It is possible that there is still a Forestal in Morinmoss-though that knowledge has been lost since the Desecration."
Several of the warriors tensed at the word Forestal. But Covenant, coming slowly out of his languor, felt none of the awe which seemed to be expected of him. He asked as he had once before, "Do you worship trees?"
"Worship?" Prothall seemed puzzled. "The word is obscure to me."
Covenant stared.
A moment later, the High Lord went on, "Do you ask if we reverence the forests? Of course. They are alive, and there is Earthpower in all living things, all stone and earth and water and wood. Surely you understand that we are the servants of that Power. We care for the life of the Land." He glanced back at the Forest, then continued, "The Earthpower takes many forms between wood and stone. Stone bedrocks the world, and to the best of our comprehension weak as it is-that form of power does not know itself. But wood is otherwise.
"At one time, in the dimmest, lost distance of the past, nearly all the Land was One Forest-one mighty wood from Trothgard and Melenkurion Skyweir to Sarangrave Flat and Seareach. And the Forest was awake. It knew and welcomed the new life which people brought to the Land. It felt the pain when mere men-blind, foolish moments in the ancientness of the Land--cut down and burned out the trees to make space in which to breed their folly. Ah, it is hard to take pride in human history. Before the slow knowledge spread throughout the Forest, so that each tree knew its peril, hundreds of leagues of life had been decimated. By our reckoning, the deed took time -more than a thousand years. But it must have seemed a rapid murder to the trees. At the end of that time, there were only four places left in the Land where the soul of the Forest lingered-survived, and shuddered in its awesome pain-and took resolve to defend itself. Then for many ages Giant Woods and Grimmerdhore and Morinmoss and Garroting Deep lived, and their awareness endured in the care of the Forestals. They remembered, and no human or Vile or Cavewight who dared enter them survived.
"Now even those ages are past. We know not if the Forestall yet live-though only a fool would deny that Caerroil Wildwood still walks in Garroting Deep. But the awareness which enabled the trees to strike back is fading. The Lords have defended the Forests since Berek Halfhand first took up the Staff of Law-we have not let the trees diminish. Yet their spirit fails. Cut off from each other, the collective knowledge of the Forests dies. And the glory of the world becomes less than it was."
Prothall paused sadly for a moment before concluding, "It is in deference to the remaining spirit, and in reverence for the Earthpower, that we ask permission for so many to enter the Forest at one time. And it is in simple caution that we offer no offense. The spirit is not dead. And the power of Morinmoss could crush a thousand thousand men if the trees were pained into wakefulness
 "Are there other dangers?" Quaan asked. "Will we need our weapons?"
"No. Lord Foul's servants have done great harm to the Forests in ages past. Perhaps Grimmerdhore has lost its power, but Morinmoss remembers. And tonight is the dark of the moon. Even Drool Rockworm
is not mad enough to order his forces into Morinmoss at such a time. And the Despiser has never been such a fool."
Quietly, the riders dismounted. Some of the Eoman fed the horses, while others prepared a quick meal. Soon all the company except Covenant had eaten. And after the meal, while the Bloodguard watched, the Questers laid themselves down to rest before the long passage of the Forest.
When they were roused again and ready to travel, Prothall strode up to the edge of the hillcrest. The breeze was stronger there; it guttered his blacksashed blue robe as he raised his staff and cried loudly, "Hail, Morinmoss! Forest of the One Forest! Enemy of our enemies! Morinmoss, hail!" His voice fell into the expanse of the woods forlornly, without echo. "We are the Lords-foes to your enemies, and learners of the lillianrill lore! We must pass through!
"Harken, Morinmoss! We hate the ax and game which hurt you! Your enemies are our enemies. Never have we brought edge of ax or flame of fire to touch you-nor ever shall. Morinmoss, harken! Let us pass!"
His call disappeared into the depths of the Forest. At last, he lowered his arms, then turned and came back to the company. He mounted his horse, looked once more sternly over the riders. At his signal, they rode down toward the knuckled edges of Morinmoss.
They seemed to fall like a stone into the Forest. One moment, they were still winding down the hillside above the trees; the next, they had penetrated the gloomy deep, and the sunlight closed behind them like an unregainable door. Birinair went at the head of the company, with his Hirebrand's staff held across his mount's neck; and behind him rode First Mark Tuvor on the Ranyhyn stallion Marny-for the Ranyhyn had nothing to fear from the old anger of Morinmoss, and Marny could guide Birinair if the aged Hearthrall went astray. Behind Tuvor came Prothall and Mhoram, with Llaura at Mhoram's back; and behind them came Covenant and Foamfollower. The Giant still carried
the sleeping child. Then followed Quaan and his Eoman, bunched together among the Bloodguard.
There was room for them to pass. The trees with their dark-mingled ebony and russet trunks were widely placed, leaving space between them for undergrowth and animals; and the riders found their way without difficulty. But the trees were not tall. They rose for fifteen or twenty feet on squat trunks, then spread outward in gnarled, drooping branches heavy with foliage, so that the company was completely enshrouded in the gloom of Morinmoss. The branches interwove until each tree seemed to be standing with its arms braced heavily on the shoulders of its kindred. And from the limbs hung great curtains and strands of moss-dark, thick, damp moss falling from the branches like slow blood caught and frozen as it bled. The moss dangled before the riders as if it were trying to turn them aside, deflect them from their path. And on the deep, mossy ground the hooves of the horses made no sound. The riders went their way as silently as if they had been translated into an illusion.
Instinctively dodging away from the dark touch of the moss, Covenant peered into the Forest's perpetual gloaming. As far as he could see in all directions, he was surrounded by the grotesque ire of moss and branch and trunk. But beyond the limit of his explicit senses he could see more-see, and smell, and in the silence of the Forest hear, the brooding heart of the woods. There the trees contemplated their grim memories-the broad, budding burst of self awareness, when the spirit of the wood lay grandly over hundreds of leagues of rich earth; and the raw plummet of pain and horror and disbelief, spreading like ripples on an ocean until the farthest leaves in the Land shivered, when the slaughter of the trees began, root and branch and all cut and consumed by ax and flame, and stumps dragged away; and the scurry and anguish of the animals, slaughtered too or bereft of home and health and hope; and the clear song of the Forestal, whose tune taught the secret, angry pleasure of crushing, of striking hack
at tiny men and tasting their blood at the roots; and the slow weakness which ended even that last fierce joy, and left the trees with nothing but their stiff memories and their despair as they watched their rage fall into slumber.
Covenant sensed that the trees knew nothing of Lords or friendship; the Lords were too recent in the Land to be remembered No, it was weakness, the failure of spirit, that let the riders pass-weakness, sorrow, helpless sleep. Here and there, he could hear trees that were still awake and aching for blood. But they were too few, too few. Morinmoss could only brood, bereft of force by its own ancient mortality.
A hand of moss struck him, and left moisture on his face. He wiped the wet away as if it were acid.
Then the sun set beyond Morinmoss, and even that low light was gone. Covenant leaned forward in his saddle, alert now, and afraid that Birinair would lose his way, or stumble into a curtain of moss and be smothered. But as darkness seeped into the sir as if it were dripping from the enshrouding branches, a change came over the wood. Gradually, a silver glow grew on the trunks-grew and strengthened as night filled the Forest, until each tree stood shimmering like a lost soul in the gloom. The silver light was bright enough to show the riders their way. Across the shifting patterns of the glow, the moss sheets hung like shadows of an abyss-black holes into emptiness-giving the wood a blotched, leprous look. But the company huddled together, and rode on through a night illumined only by the gleam of the trees, and by the red burn of Covenant's ring.
He felt that he could hear the trees muttering in horror at the offense of his wedding band. And its pulsing red glow appalled him. Moss fingers flicked his face with a wet, probing touch. He clenched his hands over his heart, trying to pull himself inward, reduce himself and pass unnoticed-rode as if he carried an ax under his robe, and was terrified lest the trees discover it.
That long ride passed like the hurt of a wound. Acute throbs finally blurred together, and at last the
company was again riding through the dimness of day. Covenant shivered, looked about within himself. What he saw left him mute. He felt that the cistern of his rage was full of darkness.
But he was caught in toils of insoluble circumstance. The darkness was a cup which he could neither drink nor dash aside.
And he was trembling with hunger.
He could hardly restrain himself from striking back at the damp clutch of the moss.
Still the company traveled the perpetual twilight of Morinmoss. They were silent, stifled by the enshrouding branches; and in the cloying quiet, Covenant felt as lost as if he had missed his way in the old Forest which had covered all the Land. With vague fury, he ducked and dodged the grasping of the moss. Time passed, and he had a mounting desire to scream.
Then, finally, Birinair waved his staff over his head and gave a weak shout. The horses understood; they stumbled into a tired run beside the strong step of the Ranyhyn. For a moment, the trees seemed to stand back, as if drawing away from the company's madness. Then the riders broke out into sunshine. They found themselves under a noon sky on a slope which bent gradually down to a river lying squarely across their way. Birinair and Marry had brought them unerringly to Roamsedge Ford.
Hoarsely shouting their relief, the warriors set heels to their mounts, and the company swept down the slope at a brave gallop. Shortly, the horses splashed into the stream, showering themselves and their glad riders with the cool spray of the Roamsedge. On the southern bank, Prothall called a halt. The passage of Morinmoss was over.
Once halted, the company tasted the toll of the passage. Their foodless vigil had weakened the riders. But the horses were in worse condition. They quivered with exhaustion. Once their last run was over, their necks and backs sagged; they scarcely had the strength to eat or drink. Despite the nickering encouragement of the Ranyhyn, two of the Eoman mustangs collapsed on their sides on the grass, and the others stood around with unsteady knees like foals. "Rest-rest," Prothall said in rheumy anxiety. "We go no farther this day." He walked among the horses, touching them with his old hands and humming a strengthening song.
Only the Ranyhyn and the Bloodguard were unmarred by fatigue. Foamfollower lowered the child Pietten into Llaura's arms, then dropped himself wearily on his back on the stiff grass. Since the company had left Soaring Woodhelven, he had been unnaturally silent; he had avoided speaking as if he feared his voice would betray him. Now he appeared to feel the strain of traveling without the support of stories and laughter.
Covenant wondered if he would ever hear the Giant laugh again.
Sourly, he reached a hand up to get his staff from Dura's saddle, and noticed for the first time what Morinmoss had done to his white robe. It was spattered and latticed with dark green stains-the markings of the moss.
The stains offended him. With a scowl, he looked around the company. The other riders must have been more adept at dodging; they showed none of the green signature of the moss. Lord Mhoram was the only exception; each shoulder of his robe bore a dark stripe like an insignia.
Roughly, Covenant rubbed at the green. But it was dry and set. Darkness murmured in his ears like the distant rumor of an avalanche. His shoulders hunched like a strangler's. He turned away from the Questers, stamped back into the river. Knotting his fingers in his robe, he tried to scrub out the stains of the Forest.
But the marks had become part of the fabric, immitigable; they clung to his robe, signing it like a chart, a map to unknown regions. In a fit of frustration, he pounded the river with his fists. But its current erased his ripples as if they had never existed.
He stood erect and dripping in the stream. His heart labored in his chest. For a moment, he felt that his rage must either overflow or crack him to the bottom.
None of this is happening- His jaw quivered. I can't stand it.
Then he heard a low cry of surprise from the company. An instant later, Mhoram commanded quietly, "Covenant. Come."
Spitting protests against so many things that he could not name them all, he turned around. The Questers were all facing away from him, their attention bent on something which he could not see because of the water in his eyes.
Mhoram repeated, "Come."
Covenant wiped his eyes, waded to the bank, and climbed out of the river. He made his dripping way through the Eoman until he reached Mhoram and Prothall.
Before them stood a strange woman.
She was slim and slight-no taller than Covenant's shoulder-and dressed in a deep brown shift which left her legs and arms free. Her skin was sun darkened to the color of earth. Her long black hair she wore tied into one strand by a heavy cord. The effect was severe, but this was relieved by a small necklace of yellow flowers. Despite her size, she stood proudly, with her arms folded and her legs slightly apart, as if she could deny the company entrance to the Plains of Ra if she chose. She watched Covenant's approach as if she had been waiting for him.
When he stopped, joining Mhoram and Prothall, she raised her hand and gave him the salute of welcome awkwardly, as if it were not a natural gesture for her. "Hail, Ringthane," she said in a clear, nickering voice. "White gold is known. We homage and serve. Be welcome."
He shook the water from his forehead and stared at her.
After greeting him, she turned with a ritual precision toward each of the others. "Hail, High Lord Prothall. Hail, Lord Mhoram. Hail, Saltheart Foamfollower. Hail, First Mark Tuvor. Hail, Warhaft
Quaan." In turn, they saluted her gravely, as if they recognized her as a potentate.
Then she said, "I am Manethrall Lithe. We see you. Speak. The Plains of Ra are not open to all."
Prothall stepped forward. Raising his staff, he held it in both hands level with his forehead and bowed deeply. At this, the woman smiled faintly. Holding her own palms beside her head, she matched his bow. This time, her movement was smooth, natural. "You know us," she said. "You come from afar, but you ate not unknowing."
Prothall replied, "We know that the Manethralls are the first tenders of the Ranyhyn. Among the Ramen, you are most honored. And you know us."
He stood close to her now, and the slight stoop of his agedness inclined him over her. Her brown skin and his blue robe accentuated each other like earth and sky. But still she withheld her welcome. "No," she returned. "Not know. You come from afar. Unknown."
"Yet you speak our names."
She shrugged. "We are cautious. We have watched since you left Morinmoss. We heard your talk."
We? Covenant wondered blankly.
Slowly, her eyes moved over the company. "We know the sleepless ones-the Bloodguard." She did not appear pleased to see them. "They take the Ranyhyn into peril. But we serve. They are welcome." Then her gaze settled on the two collapsed horses, and her nostrils flared. "You have urgency?" she demanded, but her tone said that she would accept few justifications for the condition of the mustangs. At that, Covenant understood why she hesitated to welcome the Lords, though they must have been known to her, at least by legend or reputation; she wanted no one who mistreated horses to enter the Plains of Ra.
The High Lord answered with authority,. "Yes. Fangthane lives."
Lithe faltered momentarily. When her eyes returned to Covenant, they swarmed with hints of distant fear. "Fangthane," she breathed. "Enemy of Earth and Ranyhyn. Yes. White gold knows. The Ringthane is here." Abruptly, her tone became hard. "To save the Ranyhyn from rending." She looked at Covenant as if demanding promises from him.
He had none to give her. He stood angrily dripping, too soaked with hunger to respond in repudiation or acquiescence or shame. Soon she retreated in bafflement. To Prothall, she said, "Who is he? What manner of man?"
With an ambivalent smile, Prothall said, "He is ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. He is a stranger to the Land. Do not doubt him. He turned the battle for us when we were beset by the servants of Fangthane Cavewights and ur-viles, and a griffin spawned in some unknown pit of malice."
Lithe nodded noncommittally, as if she did not understand all his words. But then she said, "There is urgency. No action against Fangthane must be hindered or delayed. There have been other signs. Rending beasts have sought to cross into the Plains. High Lord Prothall, be welcome in the Plains of Ra. Come with all speed to Manhome. We must take counsel."
"Your welcome honors us," the High Lord responded. "We return honor in accepting. We will reach Manhome the second day from today-if the horses five."
His cautious speech made Lithe laugh lightly. "You will rest in the hospitality of the Ramen before the sun sets a second time from this moment. We have not served the Ranyhyn knowledgeless from the beginning. Cords! Up! Here is a test for your Maneing."
At once, four figures appeared; they suddenly stood up from the grass in a loose semicircle around the company as if they had risen out of the ground. The four, three men and a woman, were as slight as Manethrall Lithe, and dressed like her in brown over their tanned skin; but they wore no flowers, and had short lengths of rope wrapped around their waists.
"Come, Cords," said Lithe. "Stalk these riders no longer. You have heard me welcome them. Now tend their horses and their safety. They must reach Manhome before nightfall of the next day." The four Ramen stepped forward, and Lithe said to Prothall, "Here are my Cords-Thew, Hum, Grace, and Rustah. They are hunters. While they learn the ways of the Ranyhyn and the knowing of the Manethralls, they protect the Plains from dangerous beasts. I have spent much time with them-they can care for your mounts."
With courteous nods to the company, the Cords went straight to the horses and began examining them.
"Now," Lithe continued, "I must depart. The word of your coming must cross the Plains. The Winhomes must prepare for you. Follow Rustah. He is nearest to his Maneing. Hail, Lords! We will eat together at nightfall of the new day."
Without waiting for a reply, the Manethrall turned southward and sprinted away. She ran with surprising speed; in a few moments, she had crested a hill and vanished from sight.
Watching her go, Mhoram said to Covenant, "It is said that a Manethrall can ran with the Ranyhyn -for a short time."
Behind them, Cord Hum muttered, "It is said and it is true."
Mhoram faced the Cord. He stood as if waiting to speak. His appearance was much like Lithe's, though his hair had not been permitted to grow as long as hers, and his features had a dour cast. When he had Mhoram's attention, he said, "There is a grass which will heal your horses. I must leave you to bring it."
Gently, the Lord responded, "The knowing is yours. Do what is best."
Hum's eyes widened, as if he had not expected soft words from people who mistreated horses. Then, uncertain of his movements, he saluted Mhoram in Lords' fashion. Mhoram returned a Ramen bow. Hum grinned, and was about to gallop away when Covenant abruptly asked, "Why don't you ride? You've got all those Ranyhyn."
Mhoram moved swiftly to restrain Covenant. But the damage was already done. Hum stared as if he had heard blasphemy, and his strong fingers twitched the rope from about his waist, holding it between his fists like a garrote. "We do not ride."
"Have a care, Hurn," said Cord Rustah softly. "The Manethrall welcomed him."
Hum glared at his companion, then roughly reknotted his rope around his waist. He spun away from the company, and soon vanished as if he had disappeared into the earth.
Gripping Covenant's arm, Mhoram said sternly, "The Ramen serve the Ranyhyn. That is their reason for life. Do not affront them, Unbeliever. They are quick to anger-and the deadliest hunters in the Land. There might be a hundred of them within the range of my voice, and you would never know. If they chose to slay you, you would die ignorant."
Covenant felt the force of the warning. It seemed to invest the surrounding grass with eyes that peered balefully. He felt conspicuous, as if his green-mapped robe were a guide for deadly intentions hidden in the ground. He was trembling again.
While Hum was away, the rest of the Cords worked on the horses-caressing, cajoling them into taking water and food. Under their hands, most of the mustangs grew steadier. Satisfied that their mounts were in good hands, the Lords went to talk with Quaan and Tuvor; and around them, the warriors began preparing food.
Covenant cursed the aroma. He lay on the stiff grass and tried to still his gnawing emptiness by staring at the sky. Fatigue caught up with him, and he dozed for a while. But soon he was roused by a new smell which made his hunger sting in his guts. It came from clumps of rich, ferny flowers that the horses were munching-the healing herbs which Cord Hum had brought for them. All the horses were on their feet now, and they seemed to gain strength visibly as they ate. The piquant odor of the flowers gave Covenant a momentary vision of himself on his hands and knees, chewing like the horses, and he muttered in suppressed savagery, "Damn horses eat better than we do."
Cord Rustah smiled oddly, and said, "This grass is poison to humans. It is amanibhavam, the flower of health and madness. Horses it heals, but men and women-ah, they are not enough for it."
Covenant answered with a glare, and tried to stifle the groan of his hunger. He felt a perverse desire to taste the grass; it sang to his senses delectably. Yet the thought that he had been brought so low was bitter to him, and he savored its sourness instead of food.
Certainly, the plants worked wonders for the horses. Soon they were feeding and drinking normally-and looked sturdy enough to bear riders again. The Questers finished their meal, then packed away their supplies. The Cords pronounced the horses ready to travel. Shortly, the riders were on their way south over the swift hills of Ra, with the Ramen trotting easily beside them.
Under the hooves of the horses, the grasslands rolled and passed like mild billows, giving the company an impression of speed. They rode over the hardy grass up and down short low slopes, along shallow valleys between copses and small woods beside thin streams, across broad flats. It was a rough land. Except for the faithful aliantha, the terrain was unrefined by fruit trees or cultivation or any flowers other than amanibhavam. But still the Plains seemed full of elemental life, as if the low, quick hills were formed by the pulse of the soil, and the stiff grass were rich enough to feed anything strong enough to bear its nourishment. When the sun began to set, the bracken on the hillsides glowed purple. Herds of nilgai came out of the woods to drink at the streams, and ravens flocked clamorously to the broad chintz trees which dotted the flats.
But the riders gave most of their attention to the roaming Ranyhyn. Whether galloping by like triumphal banners or capering together in evening play, the great horses wore an aura of majesty, as if the very ground they thundered on were proud of their creation. They called in fierce joy to the bearers of the Bloodguard, and these chargers did little dances with their hooves, as if they could not restrain the exhilaration of their return home. Then the unmounted Ranyhyn dashed away, full of gay blood and unfetterable energy, whinnying as they ran. Their calls made the air tingle with vitality.
Soon the sun set in the west, bidding farewell to the Plains with a flare of orange. Covenant watched it go with dour satisfaction. He was tired of horses -tired of Ranyhyn and Ramen and Bloodguard and Lords and quests, tired of the unrest of life. He wanted darkness and sleep, despite the blood burn of his ring, the new-coming crescent of the moon, and the vulture wings of horror.
But when the sun was gone, Rustah told Prothall that the company would have to keep on riding. There was danger, he said. Warnings had been left in the grass by other Ramen. The company would have to ride until they were safe-a few leagues more. So they traveled onward. Later, the moon rose, and its defiled sliver turned the night to blood, calling up a lurid answer from Covenant's ring and his hungry soul.
Then Rustah slowed the riders, warned them to silence. With as much stealth as they could muster, they angled up the south side of a hill, and stopped just below its crest. The company dismounted, left a few of the Bloodguard to watch over the horses, and followed the Cords to the hilltop.
Low, flat ground lay to the north. The Cords peered across it for some time, then pointed. Covenant fought the fatigue of his eyes and the crimson dimness until he thought he saw a dark patch moving southward over the flat.
"Kresh," whispered Hurn. "Yellow wolves-Fangthane's brood. They have crossed Roamsedge."
"Wait for us," Rustah breathed. "You will be safe."
He and the other Cords faded into the night.
Instinctively, the company drew closer together, and stared with throbbing eyes through the thin red light which seemed to ooze like sweat from the moving darkness on the flat. In suspense, they stood hushed, hardly breathing.
Pietten sat in Llaura's arms, as wide awake as a vigil.
learned later that the pack numbered fifteen of the great yellow wolves. Their fore-shoulders were waist-high on a man; they had massive jaws lined with curved, ripping fangs, and yellow omnivorous eyes. They were drooling on the trail of two Ranyhyn foals protected only by a stallion and his mare. The legends of the Ramen said that the breath of such kresh was hot enough to scorch the ground, and they left a weal of pain across the grass wherever their plundering took them. But all Covenant saw now was an approaching darkness, growing larger moment by moment.
Then to his uncertain eyes the rear of the pack appeared to swirl in confusion briefly; and as the wolves moved on he thought he could see two or three black dots lying motionless on the flat.
The pack swirled again. This time, several short howls of surprise and fear broke the silence. One harsh snarl was suddenly choked off. The neat instant, the pack started a straight dash toward the company, leaving five more dots behind. But now Covenant was sure that the dots were dead wolves.
Three more kresh dropped. Now he could see three figures leap away from the dead and sprint after the survivors.
They vanished into shadows at the foot of the hill. From the darkness came sounds of fighting-enraged snarls, the snap of jaws that missed their mark, bones cracking.
Then silence flooded back into the night. The apprehension of the company sharpened, for they could see nothing; the shadow reached almost to the crest of the hill where they stood.
Abruptly, they heard the sound of frantic running. It came directly toward them.
Prothall sprang forward. He raised his staff, and blue fire flared from its tip. The sudden light revealed a lone kresh with hatred in its eyes pelting at him.
Tuvor reached Prothall's side an instant before Foamfollower. But the Giant went ahead to meet the wolf's charge.
Then, without warning, Cord Grace rose out of hiding squarely in front of the wolf. She executed her movement as smoothly as if she were dancing. As she stood, a swift jerk freed her rope. When the kresh sprang at her, she flipped a loop of the rope around its neck, and stepped neatly aside, turning as she did so to brace her feet. The force of the wolf's charge as it hit her noose broke its neck. The yank pulled her from her feet, but she rolled lightly to one side, keeping pressure on the rope, and came to her feet in a position to finish the kresh if it were still alive.
The Eoman met her performance with a low murmur of admiration. She glanced toward them and smiled diffidently in the blue light of Prothall's staff. Then she turned to greet the other Cords as they loped out of the shadow of the hill. They were uninjured. All the wolves were dead.
Lowering his staff, Prothall gave the Cords a Ramen bow. "Well done," he said. They bowed in acknowledgment
When he extinguished his staff, red darkness returned to the hilltop. In the bloodlight, the riders began moving back to their horses. But Bannor stepped over to the dead wolf and pulled Grace's rope from around its neck. Holding the cord in a fighting grip, he stretched it taut.
"A good weapon," he said with his awkward inflectionlessness. "The Ramen did mighty work with it in the days when High Lord Kevin fought Corruption openly." Something in his tone reminded Covenant that the Bloodguard were lusty men who had gone unwived for more than two thousand years.
Then, on the spur of an obscure impulse, Bannor tightened his muscles, and the rope snapped. Shrugging slightly, he dropped the pieces on the dead kresh. His movement had the finality of a prophecy. Without a glance at Cord Grace, he left the hilltop to mount the Ranyhyn that had chosen him.

Nineteen: Ringthane's  Choice


CORD Rustah informed Prothall that, according to Ramen custom, dead renders of the Ranyhyn were left for the vultures. The Ramen had no desire to honor kresh, or to affront the earth, by burying them, and pyres raised the danger of fire on the Plains. So the riders could rest as soon as their horses were away from the smell of death. The Cord led the company on southward for nearly a league until he was satisfied that no night breeze would carry unrest to the animals. Then the Quest camped.
Covenant slept fitfully, as if he lay with the point of a spike against his stomach; and when the dawn came, he felt as ineffectual as if he had spent the night trying to counterpunch hunger. And when his nose tasted again the tangy smell of the poison amanibhavam, the sensation made his eyes water as if he had been struck.
He did not believe that he could hold himself upright much longer. But he still did not have the answer he needed. He had found no new insight, and the green handiwork of Morinmoss on his robe seemed illegible. A sure instinct told him that he could find what he lacked in the extremity of hunger. When his companions had eaten, and were ready to travel again, he climbed dully onto Dura's back and rode with them. His eyes dripped senselessly from time to time, but he was not weeping. He felt charged with passion, but could not let it out. The grief of his leprosy did not permit any such release.
In contrast to the cold ash of his mood, the day was cheery, full of bright, unclouded sun and a warm northward breeze, of deep sky and swift hills. Soon the rest of the company had surrendered to the spell of the Plains-an incantation woven by the proud roaming of the Ranyhyn. Time and again, mighty horses cantered or raced by, glancing aside at the riders with laughter in their eyes and keen shimmering calls in their throats. The sight of them added a spring to the strides of the Cords, and as the morning passed, Grace and Thew sang together:
Run, Ranyhyn:

gallop, play-
feed, and drink, and coat-gloss gleam.
You are the marrow of the earth.
No rein will curb, or bit control
no claw or fang unpunished rend; no horse-blood drop without the healing grass.
We are the Ramen, born to serve:
Manethrall curry,
Cord protect,
Winhome hearth and bed anneal-
our feet do not bear our hearts away.
Grass-grown hooves, and forehead stars;
hocks and withers earth-wood bloom:
regal Ranyhyn, gallop, run-
we serve the Tail of the Sky,
Mane of the World.

Hearing the song, Ranyhyn pranced around the company and away, running as smoothly as if the ground flowed in their strides.
In Foamfollower's arms, Pietten stirred and shook off his day sleep for a while to watch the Ranyhyn with something like longing in his blank eyes. Prothall and Mhoram sat relaxed in their saddles, as if for the first time since leaving Revelstone they felt that the company was safe. And tears ran down Covenant's face as if it were a wall.
In his emptiness, the heat of the sun confused him. His head seemed to be fulminating, and the sensation made him feel that he was perched on an unsteady
height, where great gulfs of vertiginous grass snapped like wolves at his heels. But the clingor of his saddle held him on Dura's back. After a time, he dozed into a dream where he danced and wept and made love at the commands of a satirical puppeteer.
When he awoke, it was mid afternoon, and there were mountains across most of the horizon ahead. The company was making good time. In fact, the horses were cantering now, as if the Plains gave them more energy than they could contain. For a moment, he looked ahead to Manhome, where, he foresaw, a misguided and valueless respect for his wedding ring would offer him to the Ranyhyn as a prospective rider. This was surely one of Prothall's reasons for choosing to visit the Plains of Ra before approaching Mount Thunder. Honor the ur-Lord, the Ringthane. Ah, hell! He tried to envision himself riding a Ranyhyn, but his imagination could not make the leap; more than anything else except Andelain, the great, dangerous, Earthpowerful horses quintessenced the Land. And Joan had been a breaker of horses. For some reason, the thought made his nose sting, and he tried to hold back his tears by gritting his teeth.
The rest of the afternoon he passed by watching the mountains. They grew ahead of the company as if the peaks were slowly clambering to their feet. Curving away southwest and northeast, the range was not as high as the mountains behind Mithil Stonedown, but it was rugged and raw, as if high pinnacles had been shattered to make those forbidding, impenetrable. Covenant did not know what lay behind the mountains, and did not want to know. Their impenetrability gave him an obscure comfort, as if they carne between him and something he could not bear to see.
They stood up more swiftly now as the company rode at a slow run toward them. The sun was dipping into the western plains as the riders entered the foothills of a precipitous outcropping of the range. And their backs were hued in orange and pink as they crossed a last rise, and reached a broad flat glade at the foot of the cliff.
There, at last, was Manhome.
The bottom of the cliff face for the last two hundred fifty or three hundred feet inclined sharply inward along a broad, half-oval front, leaving a cave like a deep, vertical bowl in the rock. Far back in the cave, where they were protected from the weather, and yet still exposed to the open air, were the hooped tents of the Ramen families. And in the front under the shelter of the cliff was the communal area, the open space and fires where the Ramen cooked and talked and danced and sang together when they were not out on the Plains with the Ranyhyn. The whole place seemed austere, as if generations of Ramen had not worn a welcome for themselves in the stone; for Manhome was only a center, a beginning for the Plainsroaming of a nomadic people.
Perhaps seventy Ramen gathered to watch the company approach. They were nearly all Winhomes, the young and old of the Ramen, and others who needed safety and a secure bed. Unlike the Cords and Manethralls, they had no fighting ropes.
But Lithe was there, and she walked lightly out to meet the company with three other Ramen whom Covenant took to be Manethralls also; they wore necklets of yellow flowers like hers, and carried their cords in their hair rather than at their waists. The company halted, and Prothall dismounted before the Manethralls. He bowed to them in the Ramen fashion, and they gestured their welcome in return. "Hail again, Lords from afar," said Lithe. "Hail Ringthane and High Lord and Giant and Bloodguard. Be welcome to the hearth and bed of Manhome."
At her salutation, the Winhomes surged forward from under the cliff. As the riders got down from their horses, each was greeted by a smiling Winhome bearing a small band of woven flowers. With gestures of ritual stateliness, they fastened the bands to the right wrists of their guests.
Covenant climbed off Dura, and found a shy-bold Ramen girl no more than fifteen or sixteen years old standing before him. She had fine black hair that draped her shoulders, and soft wide brown eyes. She did not smile; she seemed awed to find herself greeting
the Ringthane, the wielder of the white gold. Carefully, she reached out to put her flowers around his wrist.
Their smell staggered him, and he nearly retched. The band was woven of amanibhavam. Its tang burned his nose like acid, made him so hungry that he felt about to vomit chunks of emptiness. He was helpless to stop the tears that ran from his eyes.
With a face full of solemnity, the Winhome girl raised her hands and touched his tears as if they were precious.
Behind him, the Ranyhyn of the Bloodguard were galloping off into the freedom of the Plains. The Cords were leading the company's horses away to be tended, and more Ramen cantered into the glade in answer to the news of the Quest's arrival. But Covenant kept his eyes on the girl, stared at her as if she were a kind of food. Finally she answered his gaze by saying, "I am Winhome Gay. Soon I will share enough knowing to join the Cords." After an instant of hesitation, she added, "I am to care for you while you guest here." When he did not respond, she said hurriedly, "Others will gladly serve if my welcome is not accepted."
Covenant remained silent for a moment longer, clenching his useless ferocity. But then he gathered his strength for one final refusal. "I don't need anything. Don't touch me." The words hurt his throat.
A hand touched his shoulder. He glanced around to find Foamfollower beside him. The Giant was looking down at Covenant, but he spoke to the pain of rejection in Gay's face. "Do not be sad, little Winhome," he murmured. "Covenant Ringthane tests us. He does not speak his heart."
Gay smiled gratefully up at Foamfollower, then said with sudden sauciness, "Not so little, Giant. Your size deceives you. I have almost reached Cording."
Her gibe appeared to take a moment to penetrate Foamfollower. Then his stiff beard twitched. Abruptly, he began to laugh. His glee mounted; it echoed off the cliff above Manhome until the mountain seemed to share his elation, and the infectious sound spread until everyone near him was laughing without knowing why. For a long moment, he threw out gales as if he were blowing debris from his soul.
But Covenant turned away, unable to bear the loud weight of the Giant's humor. Hellfire, he growled. Hell and blood. What are you doing to me? He had made no decision, and now his capacity for self-denial seemed spent.
So when Gay offered to guide him to his seat for the feast which the Winhomes had prepared, he followed her numbly. She took him under the ponderous overhang of the cliff to a central, clear space with a campfire burning in the middle. Most of the company had already entered Manhome. There were two other fires, and the Ramen divided the company into three groups: the Bloodguard sat around one of the fires; Quaan and his fourteen warriors around another; and in the center, the Ramen invited Prothall, Mhoram, Foamfollower, Llaura, Pietten, and Covenant to join the Manethralls. Covenant let himself be steered until he was sitting cross-legged on the smooth stone floor, across the circle from Prothall, Mhoram, and Foamfollower. Four Manethralls made places for themselves beside the Lords, and Lithe seated herself near Covenant. The rest of the circle was filled with Cords who had come in from the Plains with their Manethrall teachers.
Most of the Winhomes bustled around cooking fires farther back in the cave, but one stood behind each guest, waiting to serve. Gay attended Covenant, and she hummed a light melody which reminded him of another song he had once heard.
Something there is in beauty which grows in the soul of the beholder like a flower.
Under the wood smoke and the cooking odors, he thought that he could smell Gay's clean, grassy fragrance.
As he sat lumpishly on the stone, the last glow of the sunset waved orange and gold on the roof like an affectionate farewell. Then the sun was gone. Night spread over the Plains; campfire flames gave the only light in Manhome. The air was full of bustle and low talk like a hill breeze rich in Ranyhyn scent. But the food Covenant dreaded did not come immediately. First, some of the Cords danced...
Three of them performed within the circle where Covenant sat. They danced around the fire with high prancing movements and sang a nickering song to the beat of complex clapping from the Winhomes. The smooth flow of their limbs, the sudden eruptions of the dance, the dark tan of their skins, made them look as if they were enacting the pulse of the Plains-dancing the pulse by making it fast enough for human eyes to see. And they repeatedly bent their bodies so that the firelight cast horselike shadows on the walls and ceiling.
Occasionally, the dancers leaped close enough to Covenant for him to hear their song:
Grass-grown hooves, and forehead stars; hocks and withers, earth-wood bloom: regal Ranyhyn, gallop, run we serve the Tail of the Sky, Mane of the World.
The words and the dance made him feel that they expressed some secret knowledge, some vision that he needed to share. The feeling repelled him; he tore his eyes away from the dancers to the glowing coals of the fire. When the dance was done, he went on staring into the fire's heart with a gaze full of vague trepidations.
Then the Winhomes brought food and drink to the circles. Using broad leaves for plates, they piled stew and wild potatoes before their guests. The meal was savory with rare herbs which the Ramen relished in their cooking, and soon the Questers were deep in the feast. For a long time the only sounds in Manhome were those of serving and eating.
In the midst of the feast, Covenant sat like a stunted tree. He did not respond to anything Gay offered him. He stared at the fire; there was one coal in it which burned redly, like the night glow of his ring. He was doing a kind of VSE in his mind, studying his extremities from end to end; and his heart ached in the conviction that he was about to find some utterly unexpected spot of leprosy. He looked as if he were withering.
After a time, people began to talk again. Prothall and Mhoram handed their leaf plates back to the Winhomes, and turned their attention to the Manethralls. Covenant caught glimpses of their conversation. They were discussing him the message he had brought to them, the role he played in the fate of the Land. Their physical comfort contrasted strangely with the seriousness of their words.
Near them, Foamfollower described the plight of Llaura and Pietten to one of the Manethralls.
Covenant scowled into the fire. He did not need to look down to see the blood change which came over his ring; he could feel the radiation of wrong from the metal. He concealed the band under his fist and trembled.
The stone ceiling seemed to hover over him like a cruel wing of revelation, awaiting the moment of his greatest helplessness to plunge onto his exposed neck. He was abysmally hungry.
I'm going crazy, he muttered into the flames.
Winhome Gay urged him to eat, but he did not respond.
Across the circle, Prothall was explaining the purpose of his Quest. The Manethralls listened uncertainly, as if they had trouble seeing the connection between evils far away and the Plains of Ra. So the High Lord told them what had been done to Andelain.
Pietten gazed with blank unfocus out into the night, as if he were looking forward to moonrise. Beside him, Llaura spoke quietly with the Cords around her, grateful for the Ramen hospitality.
As Foamfollower detailed the horrors which had been practiced on the two survivors of Soaring Woodhelven, his forehead knotted under the effort he made to contain his emotion.
The fire shone like a door with an intolerable menace waiting behind it. The back of Covenant's neck was stiff with vulnerability, and his eyes stared blindly, like knotholes.
The green stains on his robe marked him like a warning that said, Leper outcast unclean.
He was nearing the end of his VSE. Behind him was the impossibility of believing the Land true. And before him was the impossibility of believing it false.
Abruptly, Gay entered the circle and confronted him, with her hands on her hips and her eyes flashing. She stood with her legs slightly apart, so that he saw the bloody coals of the fire between her thighs.
He glanced up at her.
"You must take food," she scolded. "Already you are half dead." Her shoulders were squared, drawing her shift tight over her breasts. She reminded him of Lena.
Prothall was saying, "He has not told us all that occurred at the Celebration. The ravage of the Wraiths was not prevented-yet we believe he fought the urviles in some way. His companion blamed both herself and him for the ill which befell the Dance."
Covenant trembled. Like Lena, he thought. Lena?
Darkness pounced at him like claws of vertigo.
Lena?
For an instant, his vision was obscured by roaring and black waters. Then he crashed to his feet. He had done that to Lena-done that? He flung the girl aside and jumped toward the fire. Lena! Swinging his staff like an ax, he chopped at the blaze. But he could not fight off the memory, could not throw it back. The staff twisted with the force of the blow, fell from his hands. Sparks and coals shattered, flew in all directions. He had done that to her! Shaking his half-fist at Prothall, he cried, "She was wrong! I couldn't help it!"-thinking, Lena! What have I done?- "I'm a leper!"
Around him, people sprang to their feet. Mhoram came forward quickly, stretched out a restraining hand. "Softly, Covenant," he said. "What is wrong? We are guests."
But even while he protested, Covenant knew that Atiaran had not been wrong. He had seen himself kill at the battle of Soaring Woodhelven, and had thought in his folly that being a killer was something new for him, something unprecedented. But it was not something he had recently become; he had been that way from the beginning of the dream, from the beginning. In an intuitive leap, he saw that there was no difference between what the ur-viles had done to the Wraiths and what he had done to Lena. He had been serving Lord Foul since his first day in the Land.
"No!" he spat as if he were boiling in acid. "No, I won't do it anymore. I'm not going to be the victim anymore. I will not be waited on by children." He shook with the ague of his rage as he cried at himself, You raped her! You stinking bloody bastard!
He felt as weak as if the understanding of what he had done corroded his bones.
Mhoram said intently, "Unbeliever! What is wrong?"
"No!" Covenant repeated. "No!" He was trying to shout, but his voice sounded distant, crippled. "I will not-tolerate-this. It isn't right. I am going to survive! Do you hear me?"
"Who are you?" Manethrall Lithe hissed through taut lips. With a quick shake of her head, a flick of her wrist, she pulled the cord from her hair and held it battle-ready.
Prothall caught her arm. His old voice rattled with authority and supplication. "Forgive, Manethrall. This matter is beyond you. He holds the wild magic that destroys peace. We must forgive."
"Forgive?" Covenant tried to shout. His legs failed under him, but he did not fall. Bannor held him erect from behind. "You can't forgive."
"Do you ask to be punished?" Mhoram said incredulously. "What have you done?"
"Ask?" Covenant struggled to recollect something. Then he found it. He knew what he had to do. "No. Call the Ranyhyn."
"What?" snapped Lithe in indignation. And all the Ramen echoed her protest.
"The Ranyhyn! Call them."
"Are you mad? Have a care, Ringthane. We are the
Ramen. We do not call-we serve. They come as they will. They are not for your calling. And they do not come at night."
"Call, I tell you! I! Call them!"
Something in his terrible urgency confounded her. She hesitated, stared at him in confused anger and protest and unexpected compassion, then turned on her heel and strode out of Manhome.
Supported by Bannor, Covenant tottered out from under the oppressive weight of the mountain. The company and the Ramen trailed after him like a wake of dumbfounded outrage. Behind them, the red moon had just crested the mountain; and the distant Plains, visible beyond the foothills in front of Manhome, were already awash with crimson. The incarnadine flood seemed to untexture the earth, translate rock and soil and grass into decay and bitter blood.
The people spread out on either side of the flat so that the open ground was lit by the campfires.
Into the night walked Lithe, moving toward the Plains until she stood near the far edge of the glade. Covenant stopped and watched her. Unsteadily, but resolutely, he freed himself from Bannor's supportstood on his own like a wrecked galleon left by the tide, perched impossibly high on a reef. Moving woodenly, he went toward Lithe.
Before him, the bloody vista of the moonlight lay like a dead sea, and it tugged at him as it flowed closer with each degree of the moonrise. His ring smoldered coldly. He felt that he was the lodestone. Sky and earth were alike hued scarlet, and he walked outward as if he were the pole on which the red night turnedhe and his ring the force which compelled that tide of violated night. Soon he stood in the center of the open fiat.
A winding-sheet of silence enwrapped the onlookers.
Ahead of him, Manethrall Lithe spread her arms as if she were beckoning the darkness toward her. Abruptly, she gave a shrill cry. "Kelenbhrabanal marushyn! Rushyn hynyn kelenkoor rillynarunal!
Ranyhyn Kelenbhrabanal!" Then she whistled once. It echoed off the cliff like a shriek.
For a long moment, silence choked the flat. Striding defiantly, Lithe moved back toward Manhome. As she passed Covenant, she snapped, "I have called." Then she was behind him, and he faced the siege of the moonlight alone.
But shortly there came a rumbling of hooves. Great horses pounded the distance; the sound swelled as if the hills themselves were rolling Manhome-ward. Scores of Ranyhyn approached. Covenant locked his knees to keep himself upright. His heart felt too weak to go on beating. He was dimly conscious of the hushed suspense of the spectators.
Then the outer edge of the flat seemed to rise up redly, and a wave of Ranyhyn broke into the opennearly a hundred chargers galloping abreast like a wall at Covenant.
A cry of amazement and admiration came from the Ramen. Few of the oldest Manethralls had ever seen so many Ranyhyn at one time.
And Covenant knew that he was looking at the proudest flesh of the Land. He feared that they were going to trample him.
But the pounding wall broke away to his left, ran around him until he was completely encircled. Manes and tails tossing, forehead stars catching the firelight as they flashed past, five score Ranyhyn thundered on the turf and enclosed him. The sound of their hooves roared in his ears.
Their circle drew tighter as they ran. Their reeling strength snatched at his fear, pulled him around with them as if he were trying to face them all at once. His heart labored painfully. He could not turn fast enough to keep up with them. The effort made him stumble, lose his balance, fall to his knees.
But the next instant, he was erect again, with his legs planted against the vertigo of their circling, and his face contorted as if he were screaming-a cry lost in the thunder of Ranyhyn hooves. His arms spread as if they were braced against opposing walls of night.
Slowly, tortuously, the circle came stamping and fretting to a halt. The Ranyhyn faced inward toward Covenant. Their eyes rolled, and several of them had froth on their lips. At first, he failed to comprehend their emotion.
From the onlookers came a sudden cry: He recognized Llaura's voice. Turning, he saw Pietten running toward the horses, with Llaura struggling after him, too far behind to catch him. The child had caught everyone by surprise; they had been watching Covenant. Now Pietten reached the circle and scrambled among the frenzied feet of the Ranyhyn.
It seemed impossible that he would not be trampled. His head was no larger than one of their hooves, and the chargers were stamping, skittering. Then Covenant saw his chance. With an instinctive leap, he snatched Pietten from under one of the horses.
His half-unfingered hand could not retain its grip; Pietten sprawled away from him. Immediately, the child jumped to his feet. He dashed at Covenant and struck as hard as he could.
"They hate you!" he raged. "Go away!"
Moonlight fell into the flat as if it had sprung from the sides of the mountain. In the crimson glow, Pietten's little face looked like a wasteland.
The child struggled, but Covenant lifted him off the ground, gripped him to his chest with both arms. Restraining Pietten in his hug, he looked up at the Ranyhyn.
Now he understood. In the past, he had been too busy avoiding them to notice how they reacted to him. They were not threatening him. These great chargers were terrified-terrified of him. Their eyes shied off his face, and they scattered foam flecks about them. The muscles of their legs and chests quivered. Yet they came agonized forward. Their old role was reversed. Instead of choosing their riders, they were submitting themselves to his choice.
On an impulse, he unwrapped his left arm from Pietten and flourished his cold red ring at one of the horses. It flinched and ducked as if he had thrust a serpent at it, but it held its ground.
He gripped Pietten again. The child's struggles were weaker now, as if Covenant's hug slowly smothered him. But the Unbeliever clung. He stared wildly at the Ranyhyn, and wavered as if he could not regain his balance.
But he had already made his decision. He had seen the Ranyhyn recognize his ring. Clenching Pietten to his heart like a helm, he cried, "Listen!" in a voice as hoarse as a sob. "Listen. I'll make a bargain with you. Get it right. Hellfire! Get it right. A bargain. Listen. I can't stand-I'm falling apart. Apart." He clenched Pietten. "I see-I see what's happening to you. You're afraid. You're afraid of me. You think I'm some kind of- All right. You're free. I don't choose any of you."
The Ranyhyn watched him fearfully.
"But you've got to do things for me. You've got to back off!" That wail almost took the last of his strength. "You-the Land-" he panted, pleaded, Let me be! "Don't ask so much." But he knew that he needed something more from them in return for his forbearance, something more than their willingness to suffer his Unbelief.
"Listen-listen. If I need you, you had better come. So that I don't have to be a hero. Get it right." His eyes bled tears, but he was not weeping.
"And-and there's one more thing. One more. Lena-" Lena! "A girl. She lives in Mithil Stonedown. Daughter of Trell and Atiaran. I want-I want one of you to go to her. Tonight. And every year. At the last full moon before the middle of spring. Ranyhyn are what she dreams about."
He shook the tears out of his eyes, and saw the Ranyhyn regarding him as if they understood everything he had tried to say.
"Now go," he gasped. "Have mercy on me."
With a sudden, bursting, united neigh, all the Ranyhyn reared around him, pawing the air over his head as if they were delivering promises. Then they wheeled, whinnying with relief, and charged away from Manhome. The moonlight did not appear to touch them. They dropped over the edge of the flat and vanished as if they were being welcomed into the arms of the earth.

Almost at once, Llaura reached Covenant's side. Slowly, he released Pietten to her. She gave him a long look that he could not read, then turned away. He followed her, trudging as if he were overburdened with the pieces of himself. He could hear the amazement of the Ramen-amazement too strong for them to feel any offense at what he had done. He was beyond them; he could hear it. "They reared to him," the whispers ran. But he did not care. He was perversely sick with the sense that he had mastered nothing, proved nothing, resolved nothing.
Lord Mhoram came out to join him. Covenant did not meet Mhoram's gaze, but he heard complex wonder in the Lord's voice as he said, "Ur-Lord-ah! Such honor has never been done to mortal man or woman. Many have come to the Plains, and have been offered to the Ranyhyn-and refused. And when Lord Tamarantha my mother was offered, five Ranyhyn came to consider her-five. It was a higher honor than she had dreamed possible. We could not hear. Have you refused them? Refused?"
"Refused," Covenant groaned. They hate me.
He pushed past Mhoram and shambled into Manhome. Moving unsteadily, like a ship with a broken keel, he headed toward the nearest cooking fire. The Ramen made way for him, watched him pass with awe in their faces. He did not care. He reached the fire and grabbed the first food he saw. The meat slipped in his halfhand, so he held it with his left fist and devoured it.
He ate, blankly, swallowing food in chunks and taking more by the fistful. Then he wanted something to drink. He looked around, discovered Foamfollower standing nearby with a flagon of diamondraught dwarfed in his huge hand.
Covenant took the flagon and drained it. Then he stood numbly still, waiting for the diamondraught's effect.
It came swiftly. Soon mist began to fill his head. His hearing seemed hollow, as if he were listening to Manhome from the bottom of a well. He knew that he was going to pass out-wanted hungrily to pass out-but
before he lost consciousness, the hurt in his chest made him say, "Giant, I-I need friends."
"Why do you believe that you have none?"
Covenant blinked, and saw everything that he had done in the Land. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Then you do believe that we are real."
"What?" Covenant groped for the Giant's meaning with hands which had no fingers.
"You think us capable of not forgiving you," Foamfollower explained. "Who would forgive you more readily than your dream?"
"No," the Unbeliever said. "Dreams-never forgive."
Then he lost the firelight and Foamfollower's kind face, and stumbled into sleep.

Twenty: A Question of Hope


HE wandered wincing in sleep, expecting nightmares. But he had none. Through the vague rise and fall of his drifting as if even asleep his senses were alert to the Land-he felt that he was being distantly watched. The gaze on him was anxious and beneficent; it reminded him of the old beggar who had made him read an essay on "the fundamental question of ethics."
When he woke up, he found that Manhome was bright with sunshine.
The shadowed ceiling of the cave was dim, but light reflecting off the village floor seemed to dispel the oppressive weight of the stone. And the sun reached far enough into Manhome to tell Covenant that he had awakened early in the afternoon of a warm pre-summer day. He lay near the back of the cave in an atmosphere of stillness. Beside him sat Saltheart Foamfollower.
Covenant closed his eyes momentarily. He felt he had survived a gauntlet. And he had an unfocused sense that his bargain was going to work. When he .' looked up again, he asked, "How long have I been asleep?" as if he had just been roused from the dead.
"Hail and welcome, my friend," returned the Giant. "You make my diamondraught appear weak. You have slept for only a night and a morning."
Stretching luxuriously, Covenant said, "Practice. I do so much of it-I'm becoming an expert."
"A rare skill," Foamfollower chuckled.
"Not really. There're more of us lepers than you might think." Abruptly he frowned as if he had caught himself in an unwitting violation of his promised forbearance. In order to avoid being taken seriously, he added in a lugubrious tone, "We're everywhere."
But his attempt at humor only appeared to puzzle the Giant. After a moment, Foamfollower said slowly, "Are the others- `Leper' is not a good name. It is too short for such as you. I do not know the word, but my ears hear nothing in it but cruelty."
Covenant sat up and pushed off his blankets. "It's s not cruel, exactly." The subject appeared to shame him. While he spoke, he could not meet Foamfollower's gaze. "It's either a meaningless accidentor a `just desert.' If it were cruel, it would happen more often."
"More often?"
"Sure. If leprosy were an act of cruelty-by God or whatever-it wouldn't be so rare. Why be satisfied with a few thousand abject victims when you could have a few million?"
"Accident," Foamfollower murmured. "Just. My friend, you bewilder me. You speak with such haste. Perhaps the Despiser of your world has only a limited power to oppose its Creator."
"Maybe. Somehow I don't think my world works that way."
"Yet you said-did you not?-that lepers are everywhere."
"That was a joke. Or a metaphor." Covenant made another effort to turn his sarcasm into humor. "I can never tell the difference."
Foamfollower studied him for a long moment, then asked carefully, "My friend, do you jest?"
Covenant met the Giant's gaze with a sardonic scowl. "Apparently not."
"I do not understand this mood."
"Don't worry about it." Covenant caught his chance to escape this conversation. "Let's get some food. I'm hungry."
To his relief, Foamfollower began laughing gently. "Ah, Thomas Covenant," he chuckled, "do you remember our river journey to Lord's Keep? Apparently there is something in my seriousness which makes you hungry." Reaching down to one side, he brought up a tray of bread and cheese and fruit, and a flask of springwine. And he went on laughing quietly while Covenant pounced on the food.
Covenant ate steadily for some time before he began looking around. Then he was taken aback to find that the cave was profuse with flowers. Garlands and bouquets lay everywhere, as if overnight each Ramen had raised a garden thick with white columbines and greenery. The white and green eased the austerity of Manhome, covered the stone like a fine robe.
"Are you surprised?" asked Foamfollower. "These flowers honor you. Many of the Ramen roamed all night to gather blooms. You have touched the hearts of the Ranyhyn, and the Ramen are not unamazed or ungrateful. A wonder has come to pass for them five score Ranyhyn offering to one man. The Ramen would not exchange such a sight for Andelain itself, I think. So they have returned what honor is in their power."
Honor? Covenant echoed.
The Giant settled himself more comfortably, and said as if he were beginning a long tale, "It is sad that you did not see the Land before the Desecration. Then the Ramen might have shown you honor that would humble all your days. All matters were higher in that age, but even among the Lords there were few beauties to equal the great craft of the Ramen. `Marrowmeld,' they called it-anundivian yajna, in the tongue of the Old Lords. Bone-sculpting it was. From vulture and time-cleaned skeletons on the Plains of Ra, the Ramen formed figures of rare truth and joy. In their hands-under the power of their songs-the bones bent and flowed like clay, and were fashioned curiously, so that from the white core of lost life the Ramen made emblems for the living. I have never beheld these figures, but the tale of them is preserved by the Giants. In the destitution and diminishment, the long generations of hunger and hiding and homelessness, which came to the Ranyhyn and the Ramen with the Desecration, the skill of marrowmeld was lost."
His voice faded as he finished, and after a moment he began to sing softly:
Stone and Sea are deep in life
A silence of respectful attention surrounded him.

The Winhomes near him had stopped to listen.
A short time later, one of them waved out toward the glade, and Covenant, following the gesture, saw Lithe striding briskly across the fiat. She was accompanied by Lord Mhoram astride a beautiful roan Ranyhyn. The sight gladdened Covenant. He finished his springwine in a salute to Mhoram.
"Yes," said Foamfollower, noticing Covenant's gaze, "much has occurred this morning. High Lord Prothall chose not to offer himself. He said that his old bones would better suit a lesser mount-meaning, I think, that he feared his `old bones' would give affront to the Ranyhyn. But it would be well not to underestimate his strength."
Covenant heard a current of intimations running through Foamfollower's words. Distantly, he said, "Prothall is going to resign after this Quest-if it succeeds."
The Giant's eyes grinned. "Is that prophecy?"
Covenant shrugged. "You know as well as I do. He spends too much time thinking about how he hasn't mastered Kevin's Lore. He thinks he's a failure. And he's going to go on thinking that even if he gets the Staff of Law back."
"Prophecy, indeed."
"Don't laugh." Covenant wondered how he could explain the resonance of the fact that Prothall had refused a chance at the Ranyhyn. "Anyway, tell me about Mhoram."
Happily, Foamfollower said, "Lord Mhoram son of Variol was this day chosen by Hynaril of the Ranyhyn, who also bore Tamarantha Variol-mate. Behold! She is remembered with honor among the great horses. The Ramen say that no Ranyhyn has ever before borne two riders. Truly, an age of wonders has come to the Plains of Ra."
"Wonders," Covenant muttered. He did not like to remember the fear with which all those Ranyhyn had faced him. He glared into his flask as if it had cheated him by being empty.
One of the nearest Winhomes started toward him carrying a jug. He recognized Gay. She approached among the flowers, then stopped. When she saw that he was looking at her, she lowered her eyes. "I would refill your flagon," she said, "but I fear to offend. You will consider me a child."
Covenant scowled at her. She affected him like a reproach, and he stiffened where he sat. With an effort that made him sound coldly formal, he said, "Forget last night. It wasn't your fault." Awkwardly, he extended the flask toward her.
She came forward, and poured out springwine for him with hands that shook slightly.
He said distinctly, "Thank you."
She gazed at him widely for a moment. Then a look of relief filled her face, and she smiled.
Her smile reminded him of Lena. Deliberately, as if she were a burden he refused to shirk, he motioned for her to sit down. She placed herself cross-legged at the foot of his bed, gleaming at the honor the Ringthane did her.
Covenant tried to think of something to say to her; but before he found what he wanted, he saw Warhaft Quaan striding into Manhome. Quaan came toward him squarely, as if he were forging against Covenant's gaze, and when he neared the Unbeliever, he waited only an instant before asking his question. "We were concerned. Life needs food. Are you well?"
"Well?" Covenant felt that he was beginning to glow with his second flask of springwine. "Can't you see? I can see you. You're as sound as an oak."
"You are closed to us," said Quaan, stolid with disapproval. "What we see is not what you are."
This ambiguous statement seemed to invite a mordant retort, but Covenant restrained himself. He shrugged, then said, "I'm eating," as if he did not want to lay claim to too much health.
Quaan seemed to accept this reply for what it was worth. He nodded, bowed slightly, and left.
Watching him go, Winhome Gay breathed, "He dislikes you." Her tone expressed awe at the Warhaft's audacity and foolishness. She seemed to ask how he dared to feel as he did-as if Covenant's performance the previous night had exalted him in her eyes to the rank of a Ranyhyn.
"He has good reason," answered Covenant flatly.
Gay looked unsure. As if she were reaching out for dangerous knowledge, she asked quickly, "Because you area-a `leper'?"
He could see her seriousness. But he felt that he had already said too much about lepers. Such talk compromised his bargain. "No," he said, "he just thinks I'm obnoxious."
At this, she frowned as if she could hear his complex dishonestly. For a long moment, she studied the floor as if she were using the stone to measure his duplicity. Then she got to her feet, filled Covenant's flask to the brim from her jug. As she turned away, she said in a low voice, "You do consider me a child." She walked with a defiant and fearful swing to her hips, as if she believed she was risking her life by treating the Ring. thane so insolently.
He watched her young back, and wondered at the pride of people who served horses-and at the inner conditions which made telling the truth so difficult.
From Gay, his gaze shifted to the outer edge of Manhome, where Mhoram and Lithe stood together in the sunlight. They were facing each other-she nut brown and he blue-robed-and arguing like earth and sky. When he concentrated on them, he could make out what they were saying.
"I will," she insisted.
"No, hear me," Mhoram replied. "He does not want it. You will only cause pain for him-and for yourself."
Covenant regarded them uneasily out of the cool, dim cave. Mhoram's rudder nose gave him the aspect of a man who faced facts squarely; and Covenant felt sure that indeed he did not want whatever Mhoram was arguing against.
The dispute ended shortly. Manethrall Lithe swung away from Mhoram and strode into the recesses of the village. She approached Covenant and surprised him entirely by dropping to her knees, bowing her forehead to the stone before him. With her palms on the floor beside her head, she said, "I am your servant. You are the Ringthane, master of the Ranyhyn."
Covenant gaped at the back of her head. For an instant, he did not understand her; in his surprise, he could not conceive of any emotion powerful enough to make a Manethrall bow so low. His face felt suddenly full of shame. "I don't want a servant," he grated. But then he saw Mhoram frowning unhappily behind Lithe. He steadied himself, went on more gently, "The honor of your service is beyond me."
"No!" she averred without raising her head. "I saw. The Ranyhyn reared to you."
He felt trapped. There seemed to be no way to stop her from humiliating herself without making her aware of the humiliation. He had lived without tact or humor for such a long time. But he had promised to be forbearant. And in the distance he had traveled since Mithil Stonedown, he had tasted the consequences of allowing the people of the Land to treat him as if he were some kind of mythic figure. With an effort, he replied gruffly, "Nevertheless. I'm not used to such things. In my own world, I'm-just a little man. Your homage makes me uneasy."
Softly, Mhoram sighed his relief, and Lithe raised her head to ask in wonder, "Is it possible? Can such worlds be, where you are not among the great?"
"Take my word for it." Covenant drank deeply from his flask.
Cautiously, as if fearful that he did not mean what he had said, she climbed to her feet. She threw back her head and shook her knotted hair. "Covenant Ringthane, it shall be as you choose. But we do not forget that the Ranyhyn reared to you. If there is any service we may do, only let it be known. You may command us in all things that do not touch the Ranyhyn."
"There is one thing," he said, staring at the mountain stone of the ceiling. "Give Llaura and Pietten a home."
When he glanced at Lithe, he saw that she was grinning. He snapped fiercely, "She's one of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. And he's just a kid. They've been through enough to earn a little kindness."
Gently, Mhoram interposed, "Foamfollower has already spoken to the Manethralls. They have agreed to care for Llaura and Pietten."
Lithe nodded. "Such commands are easy. If the Ranyhyn did not challenge us more, we would spend most of our days in sleep." Still smiling, she left Covenant and cantered out into the sun.
Mhoram also was smiling. "You look-better, ur-Lord. Are you well?"
Covenant returned his attention to his springwine. "Quaan asked me the same thing. How should I know? Half the time these days I can't even remember my name. I'm ready to travel, if that's what you're getting at."
"Good. We must depart as soon as may be. It is pleasant to rest here in safety. But we must go if we are to preserve such safeties. I will tell Quaan and Tuvor to make preparation."
But before the Lord could leave, Covenant said, "Tell me something. Exactly why did we come here? You got yourself a Ranyhyn-but we lost four or five days. We could've skipped Morinmoss."
"Do you wish to discuss tactics? We believe we will
gain an advantage by going where Drool cannot expect us to go, and by allowing him time to respond to his defeat at Soaring Woodhelven. Our hope is that he will send out an army. If we arrive too swiftly, the army may still be in Mount Thunder."
Covenant resisted the plausibility of this. "You planned to come here long before we were attacked at Soaring Woodhelven. You planned it all along. I want to know why."
Mhoram met Covenant's demand squarely, but his face tensed as if he did not expect Covenant to like his answer. "When we made our plans at Revelstone, I saw that good would come of this."
"You saw?"
"I am an oracle. I see-occasionally."
"And?"
"And I saw rightly"
Covenant was not ready to push the question further. "It must be fun." But there was little sarcasm in his tone, and Mhoram laughed. His laughter emphasized the kindness of his lips. A moment later, he was able to say without bitterness, "I would rather see more such good. There is so little in these times."
As the Lord walked away to ready the company, Foamfollower said, "My friend, there is hope for you."
"Forsooth," Covenant sneered. "Giant, if I were as big and strong as you, there would always be hope for me."
"Why? Do you believe that hope is a child of strength?"
"Isn't it? Where do you get hope if you don't get it from power? If I'm wrong-by hell! There's a lot of lepers running around the world confused."
"How is power judged?" Foamfollower asked with a seriousness Covenant had not expected.
"What?"
"I do not like the way in which you speak of lepers. Where is the value of strength if your enemy is stronger?"
"You assume there is some kind of enemy. I think that's a little too easy. I would like nothing better than to blame it on someone else-some enemy who afflicted me. But that's just another kind of suicide. Abdicate the responsibility to keep myself allve."
"Ah, alive," Foamfollower countered. "No, consider further, Covenant. What value has power at all if it is not power over death? If you place hope on anything less, then your hope may mislead you."
"SO?"
"But the power over death is a delusion. There cannot be life without death."
Covenant recognized that this was a fact. But he had not expected such an argument from the Giant. It made him want to get out of the cave into the sunlight. "Foamfollower," he muttered, climbing out of his bed, "you've been thinking again." But he felt the intensity of Foamfollower's gaze. "All right. So you're right. Tell me, just where the hell do you get hope?"
Slowly, the Giant rose to his feet. He towered over Covenant until his head nearly touched the ceiling. "From faith."
"You've been dealing with humans too long-you're getting hasty. `Faith' is too short a word. What do you mean?"
Foamfollower began picking his way among the flowers. "I mean the Lords. Consider, Covenant. Faith is a way of living. They have dedicated themselves wholly to the services of the Land. And they have sworn the Oath of Peace committed themselves to serve the great goal of their lives in only certain ways, to choose death rather than submit to the destruction of passion which blinded High Lord Kevin and brought the Desecration. Come, can you believe that Lord Mhoram will ever despair? That is the essence of the Oath of Peace. He will never despair, nor ever do what despair commands-murder, desecrate, destroy. And he will never falter, because his Lordship, his service to the Land, will sustain him. Service enables service."
"That's not the same thing as hope." With the Giant, Covenant moved out of Manhome to stand in, the sunny fiat. The bright light made him duck his head, and as he did so he noticed again the moss stains which
charted his robe. Abruptly, he looked back into the cave. There the greenery was arranged among the columbines to resemble moss lines on white samite.
He stifled a groan. As if he were articulating a principle, he said, "All you need to avoid despair is irremediable stupidity or unlimited stubbornness."
"No," insisted Foamfollower. "The Lords are not stupid. Look at the Land." He gestured broadly with his arm as if he expected Covenant to view the whole country from border to border.
Covenant's gaze did not go so far. But he looked blinking beyond the green flat toward the Plains. He heard the distant whistles of the Bloodguard call to the Ranyhyn, and the nickering answer. He noticed the fond wonder of the Winhomes who came out of the cave because they were too eager to wait in Manhome until the Ranyhyn appeared. After a moment, he said, "In other words, hope comes from the power of what you serve, not from yourself. Hellfire, Giant-you forget who I am."
"Do I?"
"Anyway, what makes you such an expert on hope? I don't see that you've got anything to despair about."
"No?" The Giant's lips smiled, but his eyes were hard under his buttressed brows, and his forehead's scar shone vividly. "Do you forget that I have learned to hate? Do- But let that pass. How if I tell you that I serve you? I, Saltheart Foamfollower, Giant of Seareach and legate of my people?"
Covenant heard echoes in the question, like the distant wrack of timbers barely perceived through a high, silent wind, and he recoiled. "Don't talk like a damned mystic. Say something I can understand."
Foamfollower reached down to touch Covenant's chest with one heavy finger, as if he marked a spot on Covenant's mapped robe. "Unbeliever, you hold the fate of the Land in your hands. Soulcrusher moves against the Lords at the very time when our dreams of Home have been renewed. Must I explain that you have the power to save us, or orphan us until we share whatever doom awaits the Land?"
"Hellfire!" Covenant snapped. "How many times have I told you that I'm a leper? It's all a mistake. Foul's playing tricks on us."
The Giant responded simply and quietly. "Then are you so surprised to learn that I have been thinking about hope?"
Covenant met Foamfollower's eyes under the scarred overhang of his forehead. The Giant watched him as if the hope of the Unhomed were a sinking ship, and Covenant ached with the sense of his own helplessness to save that hope. But then Foamfollower said as if he were coming to Covenant's rescue, "Be not concerned, my friend. This tale is yet too brief for any of us to guess its ending. As you say, I have spent too much time with hastening humans. My people would laugh greatly to see me-a Giant who has not patience enough for a long story. And the Lords contain much which may yet surprise Soulcrusher. Be of good heart. It may be that you and I have already shared our portion of the terrible purpose of these times."
Gruffly, Covenant said, "Giant, you talk too much." Foamfollower's capacity for gentleness surpassed him. Muttering, Hellfire, to himself, he turned away, went in search of his staff and knife. He could hear the noises of preparation from beyond the flat; and in the village the Winhomes were busy packing food in saddlebags. The company was readying itself, and he did not want to be behind-hand. He found his staff and knife with the bundle of his clothes laid out on a slab of stone amid the flowers, as if on display. Then he got a flustered, eager Winhome to provide him with water, soap, and a mirror. He felt that he owed himself a shave.
But when he had set the mirror so that he could use it, and had doused his face in water, he found Pietten standing solemnly in front of him; and in the mirror he saw that Llaura was behind him. Pietten stared at him as if the Unbeliever were as intangible as a wisp of smoke. And Llaura's face seemed tight, as if she were forcing herself to do something she disliked. She pushed her hand unhappily through her hair, then said,
"You asked the Ramen to make a home for us here."
He shrugged. "So did Foamfollower."
"Why?"
His hearing picked out whole speeches of meaning behind her question. She held his gaze in the mirror, and he saw the memory of a burning tree in her eyes. He asked carefully, "Do you really think you might get a chance to hit back at Foul? Or be able to use it if you got it?" He looked away at Pietten. "Leave it to Mhoram and Prothall. You can trust them."
"Of course." Her tone said as clearly as words that she was incapable of distrusting the Lords.
"Then take the job you already have. Here's Pietten. Think about what's going to happen to him-more of what you've already been through. He needs help."
Pietten yawned as if he were awake past his bedtime, and said, "They hate you." He sounded as sober as an executioner.
"How?" Llaura returned defiantly. "Have you observed him? Have you seen how he sits awake at night? Have you seen how his eyes devour the moon? Have you seen his relish for the taste of blood? He is no child-no more." She spoke as if Pietten were not there listening to her, and Pietten listened as if she were reciting some formula of no importance. "He is treachery concealed in a child's form. How can I help
Covenant wet his face again and began lathering soap. He could feel Llaura's presence bearing on the back of his neck as he rubbed lather into his beard. Finally, he muttered, "Try the Ranyhyn. He likes them."
When she reached over him to take Pietten's hand and draw the child away, Covenant sighed and set the knife to his beard. His hand was unsteady; he had visions of cutting himself. But the blade moved over his skin as smoothly as if it could remember that Atiaran had refused to injure him.
By the time he was done, the company had gathered outside Manhome. He hurried out to join the riders as if he feared that the Quest would leave without him.
The last adjustments of saddles and saddlebags were in progress, and shortly Covenant stood beside Dura.
The condition of the horses surprised him. They all gleamed with good grooming, and looked as well-fed and rested as if they had been under the care of the Ramen since the middle of spring. Some of the Eoman mounts which had been most exhausted were now pawing the ground and shaking their manes eagerly.
The whole company seemed to have forgotten where they were going. The warriors were laughing together. Old Birinair clucked and scolded over the way the Ramen handled his lillianrill brands. He treated the Ramen like spoiled children, and appeared to enjoy himself almost too much to hide it behind his dignity. Mhoram sat smiling broadly on Hynaril. And High Lord Prothall stood relaxed by his mount as if he had shed years of care. Only the Bloodguard, already mounted and waiting on their Ranyhyn, remained stern.
The company's good spirits disturbed Covenant like a concealed threat. He understood that it arose in part from rest and reassurance. But he felt sure that it also arose from his meeting with the Ranyhyn. Like the Ramen, the warriors had been impressed; their desire to see in him a new Berek had been vindicated. The white gold wielder had shown himself to be a man of consequence.
The Ranyhyn were terrified! he snapped to himself. They saw Foul's hold on me, and they were terrified. But he did not remonstrate aloud. He had made a promise of forbearance in return for his survival. Despite the tacit dishonesty of allowing his companions to believe what they wished of him, he held himself still.
As the riders laughed and joked, Manethrall Lithe came to stand before them, followed by several other Manethralls and a large group of Cords. When she had the company's attention, she said, "The Lords have asked for the help of the Ramen in their fight against Fangthane the Render. The Ramen serve the Ranyhyn. We do not leave the Plains of Ra. That is life, and it is good-we ask for nothing else until the end, when all the Earth is Andelain, and man and Ranyhyn live together in peace without wolves or hunger. But we must aid the foes of Fangthane as we can. This we will do. I will go with you. My Cords will go with you if they choose. We will care for your horses on the way. And when you leave them to seek Fangthane's hiding in the ground, we will keep them safe. Lords, accept this service as honor among friends and loyalty among allies."
At once, the Cords Hurn, Thew, Grace, and Rustah stepped forward and avowed their willingness to go wherever Manethrall Lithe would lead them.
Prothall bowed to Lithe in the Ramen fashion. "The service you offer is great. We know that your hearts are with the Ranyhyn. As friends we would refuse this honor if our need as allies were not so great. The doom of these times compels us to refuse no aid or succor. Be welcome among us. Your hunter skill will greatly ease the hazards of our way. We hope to do you honor in return-if we survive our Quest."
"Kill Fangthane," said Lithe. "That will do us honor enough to the end of our days." She returned Prothall's bow, and all the assembled Ramen joined her.
Then the High Lord spoke to his companions. In a moment, the Quest for the Staff of Law was mounted and ready to ride. Led by Manethrall Lithe and her Cords, the company cantered away from Manhome as if in the village of the Ramen they had found abundant courage.