Lord Foul's Bane

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 ravelled 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 centre 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 single-minded 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 honour those who come before us. How may we honour you?”

Again, Covenant shook his head. I don't want any honour. 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 rock—

pure 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 humour 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 endeavour 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 fulfilment 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. Lor-liarill. 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 humour, 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 to 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 forty 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 defence, 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 life 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, groveller, 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, groveller. 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 humour. 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. “Now, 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 defences. 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 levelled 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 test 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 wife?”

“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, Revelstone-Lords 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 not 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 defence 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 honour 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-sufficiently.”

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 northward-curving 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.