Lord Foul's Bane

Fifteen: The Great Challenge

THAT night, when Bannor entered the suite to call Thomas Covenant to the evening meeting of the Lords, he found Covenant still sitting within the oriel of his bedroom window. By the light of Bannor's torch, Covenant appeared gaunt and spectral, as if half seen through shadows. The sockets of his eyes were dark with exhausted emotion; his lips were grey, bloodless; and the skin of his forehead had an ashen undertone. He held his arms across his chest as if he were trying to comfort a pain in his heart-watched the plains as if he were waiting for moonrise. Then he noticed the Bloodguard, and his lips pulled back, bared his teeth.

“You still don't trust me,” he said in a spent voice.

Bannor shrugged. “We are the Bloodguard. We have no use for white gold.”

“No use?”

“It is a knowledge-a weapon. We have no use for weapons.”

“No use?” Covenant repeated dully. “How do you defend the Lords without weapons?”

“We”- Bannor paused as if searching the language of the Land for a word to match his thought- “suffice.”

Covenant brooded for a moment, then swung himself out of the oriel. Standing in front of Bannor, he said softly, “Bravo.” Then he picked up his staff and kit the rooms.

This time, he paid more attention to the route Bannor chose, and did not lose his sense of direction.

Eventually, he might be able to dispense with Bannor's guidance. When they reached the huge wooden doors of the Close, they met Foamfollower and Korik. The Giant greeted Covenant with a salute and a broad grin, but when he spoke his voice was serious. “Stone and Sea, ur-Lord Covenant! I am glad you did not choose to make me wrong. Perhaps I do not comprehend all your dilemma. But I believe you have taken the better risk-for the sake of all the Land.”

“You're a fine one to talk,” replied Covenant wanly. His sarcasm was a defensive reflex; he had lost so much other armour. “How long have you Giants been lost? I don't think you would know a good risk if it kicked you.”

Foamfollower chuckled. “Bravely said, my friend. It may be that the Giants are not good advisers-all our years notwithstanding. Still you have lightened my fear for the Land.”

Grimacing uselessly, Covenant went on into the Close.

The council chamber was as brightly lit and acoustically perfect as before, but the number of people in it had changed. Tamarantha and Variol were absent, and scattered through the gallery were a number of spectators rhadhamaerl, lillianrill, warriors, Lorewardens. Bloodguard sat behind Mhoram and Osondrea; and Tuvor, Garth, Birinair, and Tohrm were in their places behind the High Lord.

Foamfollower took his former seat, gesturing Covenant into a chair near him at the Lords' table. Behind them, Bannor and Korik sat down in the lower tier of the gallery. The spectators fell silent almost at once; even the rustle of their clothing grew still. Shortly, everyone was waiting for the High Lord to begin.

Prothall sat as if wandering in thought for some time before he climbed tiredly to his feet. He held himself up by leaning on his staff, and when he spoke his voice rattled agedly in his chest. But he went without omission through the ceremonies of honouring Foamfollower and Covenant. The Giant responded with a gaiety which disguised the effort he made to be concise. But Covenant rejected the formality with a scowl and a shake of his head.

When he was done, Prothall said without meeting the eyes of his fellow Lords, “There is a custom among the new Lords-a custom which began in the days of High Lord Vailant, a hundred years ago. It is this: when a High Lord doubts his ability to meet the needs of the Land, he may come to the Council and surrender his High Lordship. Then any Lord who so chooses may claim the place for himself.” With an effort, Prothall continued firmly, “I now surrender my leadership. Rock and root, the trial of these times is too great for me. Ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, you are permitted to claim the High Lordship if you wish.”

Covenant held Prothall's eyes, trying to measure the High Lord's intentions. But he could find no duplicity in Prothall's offer. Softly, he replied, “You know I don't want it.”

“Yet I ask you to accept it. You bear the white gold.”

“Forget it,” Covenant said. “It isn't that easy.”

After a moment, Prothall nodded slowly. “I see.” He turned to the other Lords. “Do you claim the High Lordship?”

“You are the High Lord,” Mhoram averred. And Osondrea added, “Who else? Do not waste more time in foolishness.”

“Very well.” Prothall squared his shoulders. “The trial and the doom of this time are on my head. I am High Lord Prothall, and by the consent of the Council my will prevails. Let none fear to follow me, or blame mother if my choices fail.”

An involuntary twitch passed across Covenant's face, but he said nothing; and shortly Prothall sat sown, saying, "Now let us consider what we must do.

In silence the Lords communed mentally with each other. Then Osondrea turned to Foamfollower. 'Rockbrother, it is said, `When many matters press you, consider friendship first.' For the sake of your people you should return to Seareach as swiftly as may be. The Giants must be told all that has transpired here. But I judge that the waterway of Andelain will no longer be safe for you. We will provide an escort to accompany you through Grimmerdhore Forest and the North Plains until you are past Landsdrop and Sarangrave Flat."

“Thank you, my Lords,” replied Foamfollower formally, “but that will not be needed. I have given some thought myself to this matter. In their wandering, my people learned a saying from the Bhrathair: `He who waits for the sword to fall upon his neck will surely lose his head.' I believe that the best service which I can do for my people is to assist whatever course you undertake. Please permit me to join you.”

High Lord Prothall smiled and bowed his head in acknowledgement. “My heart hoped for this. Be welcome in our trial. Peril or plight, the Giants of Seareach strengthen us, and we cannot sing our gratitude enough. But your people must not be left unwarned. We will send other messengers.”

Foamfollower bowed in turn, and then Lord Osondrea resumed by calling on Warmark Garth.

Garth stood and reported, “Lord, I have done as you requested. Furls Fire now burns atop Revelstone. All who see it will warn their folk, and will spread the warning of war south and east and north. By morning, all who live north of the Soulsease and west of Grimmerdhore will be forearmed, and those who live near the river will send runners into the Centre Plains. Beyond that, the warning will carry more slowly.

“I have sent scouts in relays toward Grimmerdhore and Andelain. But six days will pass before we receive clear word of the Forest. And though you did not request it, I have begun preparations for a siege. In all, one thousand three hundred of my warriors are now at work. Twenty Eoman remain ready.”

“That is well,” said Osondrea. “The warning which must be taken to Seareach we entrust to you. Send as many warriors as you deem necessary to ensure the embassy.”

Garth bowed and sat down.

“Now.” She nodded her head as if to clear it of other considerations. “I have given my time to the study of ur-Lord Covenant's tale of his journey. The presence of white gold explains much. But still many things require thought-south-running storms, a three-winged bird, an abominable attack on the Wraiths of Andelain, the bloodying of the moon. To my mind, the meaning of these signs is clear.”

Abruptly, she slapped the table with her palm as if she needed the sound and the pain to help her I speak. “Drool Rockworm has already found his bane-the Illearth Stone or some other deadly evil. With the Staff of Law, he has might enough to blast the seasons in their course!”

A low groan arose from the gallery, but Prothall and Mhoram did not appear surprised. Still, a dangerous glitter intensified in Mhoram's eyes as he said softly, “Please explain.”

"The evidence of power is unmistakable. We know that Drool has the Staff of Law. But the Staff is not a neutral tool. It was carved from the One Tree as a servant of the Earth and the Earth's Law. Yet all that has occurred is unnatural, wrong. Can you conceive the strength of will which could corrupt the Staff even enough to warp one bird? Well, perhaps madness gives Drool that will. Or perhaps the Despiser now controls the Staff. But consider-birthing a three-winged bird is the smallest of these ill feats. At his peak in the former age, Lord Foul did not dare attack the Wraiths. And as for the desecrated noon-only the darkest and most terrible of ancient prophecies bespeak such matters.

“Do you call this proof conclusive that Lord Foul indeed possesses the Staff? But consider-for less exertion than corrupting the moon requires, he could surely stamp us into death. We could not fight such night. And yet he spends himself so-so vainly. Would he employ his strength to so little purpose-against the Wraiths first when he could easily destroy us? And if he would, could he corrupt the moon using the Staff of Law-a tool not made for his hand, resisting his mastery at every touch?

“I judge that if Lord Foul controlled the Staff, he would not and perhaps could not do what has been done-not until we were destroyed. But if Drool still holds the Staff, then it alone does not suffice. No Cavewight is large enough to perform such crimes without the power of both Staff and Stone. The Cavewights are weak-willed creatures, as you know. They are easily swayed, easily enslaved. And they have no heaven-challenging lore. Therefore they have always been the fodder of Lord Foul's armies.

“If I judge truly, then the Despiser himself is as much at Drool's mercy as we are. The doom of this time rides on the mad whim of a Cavewight.

“This I conclude because we have not been attacked.”

Prothall nodded glumly to Osondrea, and Mhoram took up the line of her reasoning. “So Lord Foul relies upon us to save him and damn ourselves. In some way, he intends that our response to ur-Lord Covenant's message will spring upon ourselves a trap which holds both us and him. He has pretended friendship to Drool to preserve himself until his plans are ripe. And he has taught Drool to use this newfound power in ways which will satisfy the Cavewight's lust for mastery without threatening us directly. Thus he attempts to ensure that we will make trial to wrest the Staff of Law from Drool.”

“And therefore,” Osondrea barked, “it would be the utterest folly for us to make trial.”

“How so?” Mhoram objected. “The message said, “Without it, they will not be able to resist me for seven years.” He foretells a sooner end for us if we do not make the attempt, or if we attempt and fail, than if we succeed.”

“What does he gain by such foretellings? What but our immediate deaths? His message is only a lure of false hope to lead us into folly.”

But Mhoram replied by quoting, “Drool Rockworm has the Staff, and that is a cause for terror. He will be enthroned at Lord's Keep in two years if the message fails.”

“The message has not failed!” Osondrea insisted. “We are forewarned. We can prepare. Drool is mad, and his attacks will be flawed by madness. It may be that we will find his weakness and prevail. By the Seven! Revelstone will never fall while the Bloodguard remain. And the Giants and Ranyhyn will come to our aid.” Turning toward the High Lord, she urged, “Prothall, do not follow the lure of this quest. It is chimera. We will fall under the shadow, and the Land will surely die.”

“But if we succeed,” Mhoram countered, “if we gain the Staff, then our chance is prolonged. Lord Foul's prophecy notwithstanding, we may find enough Earthpower in the Staff to prevail in war. And if we do not, still we will have that much more time to search for other salvations.”

“How can we succeed? Drool has both the Staff of Law and the Illearth Stone.”

“And is master of neither.”

“Master enough! Ask the Wraiths the extent of his might. Ask the moon.”

“Ask me,” growled Covenant, climbing slowly to his feet. For a moment he hesitated, torn between a fear of Drool and a dread of what would happen to him if the Lords did not go in search of the Staff. He had a vivid apprehension of the malice behind Drool's Laval eyes. But the thought of the Staff decided him. He felt that he had gained an insight into the logic of his dream. The Staff had brought him to the Land; he would need the Staff to escape. “Ask me,” he said again. “Don't you think I have a stake in this?”

The Lords did not respond, and Covenant was forced to carry the argument forward himself. In his brooding, he had been able to find only one frail hope. With an effort, he broached the subject. “According to you, Foul chose me. But he talked about me on Kevin's Watch as if I had been chosen by someone else-`my Enemy,' he said. Who was he talking about?”

Thoughtfully, the High Lord.replied, “I do not know. We said earlier that we hoped there were other forces at work in your selection. Perhaps there were. A few of our oldest legends speak of a Creator-the Creator of the Earth-but we know nothing of such a being. We only know that we are mortal, but Lord Foul is not-in some way, he surpasses flesh.”

“The Creator,” Covenant muttered. “All right.” A disturbing memory of the old beggar who had accosted him outside the courthouse flared momentarily. “Why did he choose me?”

Prothall's abnegate eyes did not waver. “Who can say? Perhaps for the very reasons that Lord Foul chooses you.”

That paradox angered Covenant, but he went on as if inspired by the contradiction, “Then this Creator-also wanted you to hear Foul's message. Take that into account.”

“There!” Osondrea pounced. “There is the lie I sought-the final bait. By raising the hope of unknown help, Lord Foul seeks to ensure that we will accept this mad quest.”

Covenant did not look away from the High Lord. He held Prothall's eyes, tried to see beyond the wear of long asceticisms into his mind. But Prothall returned the gaze unflinchingly. The lines at the corners of his eyes seemed etched there by self-abrogation. “Lord Osondrea,” he said evenly, “does your study reveal any signs of hope?”

“Signs? Omens?” Her voice sounded reluctant in the Close. “I am not Mhoram. If I were, I would ask Covenant what dreams he has had in the Land. But I prefer practical hopes. I see but one: so little time has been lost. It is in my heart that no other combination of chance and choice could have brought Covenant here so swiftly.”

“Very well,” Prothall replied. His look, locked with Covenant's, sharpened momentarily, and in it Covenant at last saw that the High Lord had already made his decision. He only listened to the debate to give himself one last chance to find an alternative. Awkwardly, Covenant dropped his eyes, slumped in his chair. How does he do it? he murmured pointlessly to himself. Where does all this courage come from?

Am I the only coward-?

A moment later, the High Lord pulled his blue robe about him and rose to his feet. “My friends,” he said, his voice thick with rheum, “the time has come for decision. I must choose a course to meet our need. If any have thoughts which must be uttered, speak now.” No one spoke, and Prothall seemed to draw dignity and stature from the silence. “Hear then the will of Prothall son of Dwillian, High Lord by the choice of the Council-and may the Land forgive me if I mistake or fail. In this moment, I commit the future of the Earth.

“Lord Osondrea, to you and to the Lords Variol and Tamarantha I entrust the defences of the Land. I charge you do all which wisdom or vision suggest to preserve the life in our sworn care. Remember that there is always hope while Revelstone stands. But if Revelstone falls, then all the ages and works of the Lords, from Berek Heartthew to our generation, shall come to an end, and the Land will never know the like again.

“Lord Mhoram and I will go in search of Drool Rockworm and the Staff of Law. With us will go the Giant Saltheart Foamfollower, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, as many of the Bloodguard as First Mark Tuvor deems proper to spare from the defence of Revelstone, and one Eoman of the Warward. Thus we will not go blithe or unguarded into doom-but the main might of Lord's Keep will be left for the defence of the Land if we fail.

“Hear and be ready. The Quest departs at first light.”

“High Lord!” protested Garth, leaping to his feet. 'Will you not wait for some word from my scouts? You must brave Grimmerdhore to pass toward Mount Thunder. If the Forest is infested by the servants of Drool or the Grey Slayer, you will have little safety until my scouts have found out the movements of the enemy.”

“That is true, Warmark,” said Prothall. “But how long will we be delayed?”

“Six days, High Lord. Then we will know how much force the crossing of Grimmerdhore requires.”

For some time, Mhoram had been sitting with his chin in his hands, staring absently into the graveling pit. But now he roused himself and said, “One hundred Bloodguard. Or every warrior that Revelstone can provide. I have seen it. There are ur-viles in Grimmerdhore-and wolves by the thousands. They hunt in my dreams.” His voice seemed to chill the air in the Close like a wind of loss.

But Prothall spoke at once, resisting the spell of Mhoram's words. "No, Garth. We cannot delay. And the peril of Grimmerdhore is too great. Even Drool Rockworm must understand that our best road to Mount Thunder leads through the Forest and along the north of Andelain. No, we will go south-around Andelain, then east through Morinmoss to the Plains of Ra, before moving north to Gravin Threndor. I know-that seems a long way, full of needless leagues, for a Quest which must rue the loss of each day. But this southward way will enable us to gain the help of the Ramen. Thus all the Despiser's olden foes will share in our Quest. And perhaps we will throw Drool out of his reckoning.

“No, my choice is clear. The Quest will depart tomorrow, riding south. That is my word. Let any who doubt speak now.”

And-Thomas Covenant, who doubted everything, felt Prothall's resolution and dignity so strongly that he said nothing.

Then Mhoram and Osondrea stood, followed immediately by Foamfollower; and behind them the assembly rushed to its feet. All turned toward High Lord Prothall, and Osondrea lifted up her voice to say, “Melenkurion Skyweir watch over you, High Lord. Melenkurion abatha! Preserve and prevail! Seed and rock, may your purpose flourish. Let no evil blind or ill assail-no fear or faint, no rest or joy or pain, assuage the grief of wrong. Cowardice is inexculpate, corruption unassoiled. Skyweir watch and Earthroot anneal. Melenkurion abatha! Minas mill khabaal!”

Prothall bowed his head, and the gallery and the Lords responded with one unanimous salute, one extending of arms in mute benediction.

Then in slow order the people began to leave the Close. At the same time, Prothall, Mhoram, and Osondrea departed through their private doors.

Once the Lords were gone, Foamfollower joined Covenant, and they moved together up the steps, followed by Bannor and Korik. Outside the Close, Foamfollower hesitated, considering something, then said, “My friend, will you answer a question for me?”

“You think I've got something left to hide?”

"As to that, who knows? The faery Elohim had a saying-`The heart cherishes secrets not worth the telling.' Ah, they were a laughing people. But — '

“No,” Covenant cut in. “I've been scrutinized enough.” He started away toward his rooms.

“But you have not heard my question.”

He turned. “Why should I? You were going to ask what Atiaran had against me.”

“No, my friend,” replied Foamfollower, laughing softly. “Let your heart cherish that secret to the end of time. My question is this. What dreams have you had since you came to the Land? What did you dream that night in my boat?”

Impulsively, Covenant answered, “A crowd of my people-real people-were spitting blood at me. And one of them said, `There is only one good answer to death.' ”

“Only one? What answer is that?”

“Turn your back on it,” Covenant snapped as he strode away down the corridor. “Outcast it.” Foamfollower's good natured humour echoed in his ears, but he marched on until he could no longer hear the Giant. Then he tried to remember the way to his rooms. With some help from Bannor, he found his suite and shut himself in, only bothering to light me torch before closing the door on the Bloodguard.

He found that in his absence someone had shuttered his windows against the fell light of the moon. Perversely, he yanked one of them open. But the bloodscape hurt his eyes like the stink of a corpse, and he slammed the shutter closed again. Then for a long time before he went to bed he paced the floor, arguing with himself until fatigue overcame him.

When morning neared, and Bannor began shaking him awake, he resisted. He wanted to go on sleeping as if in slumber he could find absolution. Dimly, he remembered that he was about to start on a journey far more dangerous than the one he had just completed, and his tired consciousness moaned in protest.

“Come,” said Bannor. “If we delay, we will miss the call of the Ranyhyn.”

“Go to hell,” Covenant mumbled. “Don't you ever sleep?”

“The Bloodguard do not sleep:”

“What?”

“No Bloodguard has slept since the Haruchai swore their Vow.”

With an effort, Covenant pulled himself into a sitting position. He peered blearily at Bannor for a moment, then muttered, “You're already in hell.”

The alien flatness of Bannor's voice did not waver as he replied, “You have no reason to mock us.”

“Of course not,” Covenant growled, climbing out of bed. “Naturally, I'm supposed to enjoy having my integrity judged by someone who doesn't even need sleep.”

“We do not judge. We are cautious. The Lords are in our care.”

“Like Kevin-who killed himself. And took just about everything else with him.” But as he made this retort, he felt suddenly ashamed of himself. In the firelight, he remembered the costliness of the Bloodguard's fidelity. Wincing at the coldness of the stone floor, he said, “Forget it. I talk like that in self defence. Ridicule seems to be-my only answer.” Then he hurried away to wash, shave, and get dressed. After a quick meal, he made sure of his knife and staff, and at last nodded his readiness to the Bloodguard.

Bannor led him down to the courtyard of the old Gilden tree. A haze of night still dimmed the air, but the stars were gone, and sunrise was clearly imminent. Unexpectedly, he felt that he was taking part in something larger than himself. The sensation was an odd one, and he tried to reason it away as he followed Bannor through the tunnel, between the huge, knuckled tower gates, and out into the dawn.

There, near the wall a short distance to the right of the gate, was gathered the company of the Quest. The warriors of the Third Eoman sat astride their horses in a semicircle behind Warhaft Quaan, and to their left stood nine Bloodguard led by First Mark Tuvor. Within the semicircle were Prothall, Mhoram, and Saltheart Foamfollower. The Giant carried in his belt a quarterstaff as tall as a man, and wore a blue neck-scarf that fluttered ebulliently in the morning breeze. Nearby were three men holding three horses saddled in clingor. Above them all, the face of Revelstone was crowded with people. The dwellers of the mountain city thronged every balcony and terrace, every window. And facing the gathered company was Lord Osondrea. She held her head high as if she defied her responsibility to make her stoop.

Then the sun crested the eastern horizon. It caught the upper rim of the plateau, where burned the blue Same of warning; it moved down the wall until it lifted High Lord's Furl out of the gloaming like the lighting of a torch. Next it revealed the red pennant, and then a new white flag.

Nodding up at the new flag, Bannor said, “That is for you, ur-Lord. The sign of white gold.” Then he west to take his place among the Bloodguard.

Silence rested on the company until the sunlight touched the ground, casting its gold glow over the Questers. As soon as the light reached her feet, Osondrea began speaking as if she had been waiting patiently for this moment, and she covered the ache in her heart with a scolding tone. "I am in no mood tae the ceremony, Prothall. Call the Ranyhyn, and go.

The folly of this undertaking will not be made less by delay and brave words. There is nothing more for you to say. I am well suited for my task, and the defence of the Land will not falter while I live. Go-call the Ranyhyn."

Prothall smiled gently, and Mhoram said with a grin, “We are fortunate in you, Osondrea. I could not entrust any other with Variol my father and Tamarantha my mother.”

“Taunt me at your peril!” she snapped. “I am in no mood-no mood, do you hear?”

“I hear. You know that I do not taunt you. Sister Osondrea, be careful.”

“I am always careful. Now go, before I lose patience altogether.”

Prothall nodded to Tuvor; the ten Bloodguard turned and spread out, so that each faced into the rising sun with no one to obscure his view. One at a time, each Bloodguard raised a hand to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle which echoed off the wall of the Keep into the dawn air.

They whistled again, and then a third time, and each call sounded as fierce and lonely as a heart cry. But the last whistle was answered by a distant whinny and a low thunder of mighty hooves. All eyes turned expectantly eastward, squinted into the morning glory. For a long moment, nothing appeared, and the rumble of the earth came disembodied to the company, a mystic manifestation. But then the horses could be seen within the sun's orb, as if they had materialized in skyfire.

Soon the Ranyhyn passed out of the direct line of the sun. There were ten of them-wild and challenging animals. They were great craggy beasts, deep-chested, proud-necked, with some of the delicacy of pure-blooded stock and some of the rough angularity of mustangs. They had long flying manes and tails, gaits as straight as plumb lines, eyes full of restless intelligence. Chestnuts, bays, roans, they galloped toward the Bloodguard.

Covenant knew enough about horses to see that the Ranyhyn were as individual as people, but they shared one trait: a white star marked the centre of each forehead. As they approached, with the dawn burning on their backs, they looked like the Land personified-the essence of health and power.

Nickering and tossing their heads, they halted before the Bloodguard. And the Bloodguard bowed deeply to them. The Ranyhyn stamped their feet and shook their manes as if they were laughing affectionately at a mere human show of respect. After a moment Tuvor spoke to them. “Hail, Ranyhyn! Land-riders and proud-bearers. Sun-flesh and sky-mane, we are glad that you have heard our call. We must go on a long journey of many days. Will you bear us?”

In response, a few of the horses nodded their heads, and several others pranced in circles like colts. Then they moved forward, each approaching a specific Bloodguard and nuzzling him as if urging him to mount. This the Bloodguard did, though the horses were without saddle or bridle. Riding bareback, the Bloodguard trotted the Ranyhyn in a circle around the company, and arrayed themselves beside the mounted warriors.

Covenant felt that the departure of the company was imminent, and he did not want to miss his chance. Stepping close to Osondrea, he asked, “What does it mean? Where did they come from?”

The Lord turned and answered almost eagerly, as if glad for any distraction, "Of course-you are a stranger. Now, how can I explain such a deep matter briefly? Consider-the Ranyhyn are free, untamed, and their home is in the Plains of Ra. They are tended by the Ramen, but they are never ridden unless they choose a rider for themselves. It is a free choice. And once a Ranyhyn selects a rider, it is faithful to that one though fire and death interdict.

“Few are chosen. Tamarantha is the only living Lord to be blessed with a Ranyhyn mount-Hynaril bears her proudly-though neither Prothall nor Mhoram have yet made the trial. Prothall has been unwilling. But I suspect that one of his reasons for journeying south is to give Mhoram a chance to be chosen.

“No matter. Since the age of High Lord Kevin, a bond has grown up between the Ranyhyn and the Bloodguard. For many reasons, only some of which I can guess, no Bloodguard has remained unchosen.

“As to the coming here of the Ranyhyn today-that surpasses my explaining. They are creatures of Earthpower. In some way, each Ranyhyn knows when its rider will callyes, knows, and never fails to answer. Here are Huryn, Brabha, Marny, and others. Ten days ago they heard the call which only reached our ears this morning-and after more than four hundred leagues, they arrive as fresh as the dawn. If we could match them, the Land would not be in such peril.”

As she had been speaking, Prothall and Mhoram had mounted their horses, and she finished while walking Covenant toward his mustang. Under the influence of her voice, he went up to the animal without hesitation. But when he put his foot in the stirrup of the clingor saddle he felt a spasm of reluctance. He did not like horses, did not trust them; their strength was too dangerous. He backed away, and found that his hands were trembling.

Osondrea regarded him curiously; but before she could say anything a bustle of surprise ran through the company. When he looked up, Covenant saw three old figures riding forward-the Lords Variol and Tamarantha, and Hearthrall Birinair. Tamarantha sat astride a great roan Ranyhyn mare with laughing eyes.

Bowing toward them from the back of his horse, High Lord Prothall said, “I am glad that you have come. We need your blessing before we depart, just as Osondrea needs your help.”

Tamarantha bowed in return, but there was a sly half-smile on her wrinkled lips. She scanned the company briefly. “You have chosen well, Prothall.” Then she brought her old eyes back to the High Lord. “But you mistake us. We go with you.”

Prothall began to object, but Birinair put in stoutly,

“Of course. What else? A Quest without a Hirebrand, indeed!”

“Birinair,” said Prothall reprovingly, “surely our work for the Seareach Giants requires you.”

“Requires? Of course. As to that, why,” the Hirebrand huffed, “as to that-no. Shames me to say it. I have given all the orders. No. The others are abler. Have been for years.”

“Prothall,” Tamarantha urged, “do not forbid. We are old-of course we are old. And the way will be long and hard. But this is the great challenge of our time-the only high and bold enterprise in which we will ever be able to share.”

“Is the defence of Revelstone then such a little thing?”

Variol jerked up his head as if Prothall's question had been a gibe. “Revelstone remembers we have failed to retrieve any of Kevin's Lore. What possible help can we be here? Osondrea is more than enough. Without this Quest, our lives will be wasted.”

“No, my Lords-no. Not wasted,” Prothall murmured. With a baffled expression, he looked to Mhoram for support. Smiling crookedly, Mhoram said; “Life is well designed. Men and women grow old so that someone will be wise enough to teach the young. Let them come.”

After another moment's hesitation, Prothall.decided. “Come, then. You will teach us all.”

Variol smiled up at Tamarantha, and she returned his gaze from the high back of the Ranyhyn. Their faces were full of satisfaction and calm expectancy, which they shared in the silent marriage of their eyes. Watching them, Covenant abruptly snatched up his horse's reins and climbed into the saddle. His heart thudded anxiously, but almost at once the clingor gave him a feeling of security which eased his trepidation. Following the example of Prothall and Mhoram, he slid the staff under his left thigh, where it was held by the clingor. Then he gripped the mustang with his knees and tried not to fret.

The man who had been holding the horse touched Covenant's knee to get his attention. “Her name is Dura-Dura Fairflank. Horses are rare in the Land. I have trained her well. She is as good as a Ranyhyn," he boasted, then lowered his eyes as if embarrassed by his exaggeration.

Covenant replied gruffly, “I don't want a Ranyhyn.”

The man took this as approval of Dura, and beamed with pleasure. As he moved away, he touched his palms to his forehead and spread his arms wide in salute.

From his new vantage, Covenant surveyed the company. There were no packhorses, but attached to every saddle were bags of provisions and tools, and Birinair had a thick bundle of lillianrill rods behind him. The Bloodguard were unencumbered, but Foamfollower carried his huge sack over his shoulder, and looked ready to travel as fast as any horse.

Shortly, Prothall rose in his stirrups and called out over the company, "My friends, we must depart. The Quest is urgent, and the time of our trial presses upon us. I will not try to stir your hearts with long words, or bind you with awesome oaths. But I give you two charges. Be true to the limit of your strength. And remember the Oath of Peace. We go into danger, and perhaps into war-we will fight if need be. But the Land will not be served by angry bloodshed. Remember the Code:

Do not hurt where holding is enough;

do not wound where hurting is enough;

do not maim where wounding is enough;

and kill not where maiming is enough;

the greatest warrior is one who does not need to kill.”

Then the High Lord wheeled his mount to face Revelstone. He drew out his staff, swung it three times about his head, and raised it to the sky. From its end, a blue incandescent flame burst. And he cried to the Keep

"Hail, Revelstone.

The entire population of the Keep responded with one mighty, heart-shaking shout:

“Hail!”

That myriad-throated paean sprang across the hills; the dawn air itself seemed to vibrate with praise and salutation. Several of the Ranyhyn nickered joyously. In answer, Covenant clenched his teeth against a sudden thickening in his throat. He felt unworthy.

Then Prothall turned his horse and urged it into a canter down the hillside. Swiftly, the company swung into place around him. Mhoram guided Covenant to a position behind Prothall, ahead of Variol and Tamarantha. Four Bloodguard flanked the Lords on either side, Quaan, Tuvor, and Korik rode ahead of Prothall, and behind came Birinair and the Eoman. With a long, loping stride, Foamfollower pulled abreast of Mhoram and Covenant, where he jogged as easily as if such travelling were natural to him.

Thus the Quest for the Staff of Law left Lord's Keep in the sunlight of a new day.