Lord Foul's Bane

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 defences. The hooves of the horses struck echoes off the smooth stone, filling the tunnel like a rumour 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 centre 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 honour 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-centred, 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.” Trembling, he moved to the table and picked up a stoneware flask of springwine.

When he heard the door close, he took a long draught like a gesture of defiance. Then, with his teeth clenched on the fine beery flavour of the springwine, he looked around the room again, glared about him as if he were daring dark spectres 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 centre 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 colourful. Bluish grasslands and ploughed brown fields and new-green 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 grey 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 notI 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 colour 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 rhadhamaerl 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-grey-blue irises flecked with gold that 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 honour 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 defence.”

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-defence. “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, Hellfire! 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 defence 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 meagreness, his mere frail mortality. Once again, he sensed that the makers of Revelstone had surpassed him.

But Mhoram and Bannor did not appear meagre 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 equalled 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 un-crowded; 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 labouring 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 Grey 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 labour 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 limits of thier 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.