The Illearth War

One: “The Dreams of Men”

BY the time Thomas Covenant reached his house the burden of what had happened to him had already become intolerable.

When he opened the door, he found himself once more in the charted neatness of his living room. Everything was just where he had left it-just as if nothing had happened, as if he had not spent the past four hours in a coma or in another world where his disease had been abrogated despite the fact that such a thing was impossible, impossible. His fingers and toes were all numb and cold; their nerves were dead. That could never be changed. His living room-all his rooms were organized and carpeted and padded so that he could at least try to feel safe from the hazard of bumps, cuts, burns, bruises which could damage him mortally because he was unable to feel them, know that they had happened. There, lying on the coffee table in front of the sofa, was the book he had been reading the previous day. He had been reading it while he was trying to make up his mind to risk a walk into town. It was still open to a page which had had an entirely different meaning to him just four hours ago. It said, “… modelling the incoherent and vertiginous matter of which dreams are composed was the most difficult task a man could undertake… ” And on another page it said, “… the dreams of men belong to God…”

He could not bear it. He was as weary as if the Quest for the Staff of Law had actually happened-as if he had just survived an ordeal in the catacombs and on the mountainside, and had played his involuntary part in wresting the Staff from Lord Foul's mad servant. But it was suicide for him to believe that such things had happened, that such things could happen. They were impossible, like the nerve health he had felt while the events had been transpiring around him or within him. His survival depended on his refusal to accept the impossible.

Because he was weary and had no other defence, he went to bed and slept like the dead, dreamless and alone.

Then for two weeks he shambled through his life from day to day in a kind of somnolence. He could not have said how often his phone rang, how often anonymous people called to threaten or berate or vilify him for having dared to walk into town. He wrapped blankness about himself like a bandage, and did nothing, thought nothing, recognized nothing. He forgot his medication, and neglected his VSE (his Visual Surveillance of Extremities-the discipline of constant self-inspection on which the doctors had taught him his life depended). He spent most of his time in bed. When he was not in bed, he was still essentially asleep. As he moved through his rooms, he repeatedly rubbed his fingers against table edges, doorframes, chair backs, fixtures, so that he had the appearance of trying to wipe something off his hands.

It was as if he had gone into hiding-emotional hibernation or panic. But the vulture wings of his personal dilemma beat the air in search of him ceaselessly. The phone calls became angrier and more frustrated; his mute irresponsiveness goaded the callers, denied them any effective release for their hostility. And deep in the core of his slumber something began to change. More and more often, he awoke with the dull conviction that he had dreamed something which he could not remember, did not dare remember.

After those two weeks, his situation suddenly reasserted its hold on him. He saw his dream for the first time. It was a small fire-a few flames without location or context, but somehow pure and absolute. As he gazed at them, they grew into a blaze, a conflagration. And he was feeding the fire with paper-the pages of his writings, both the published best-seller and the new novel he had been working on when his illness was discovered.

This was true; he had burned both works. After he had learned that he was a leper-after his wife, Joan, had divorced him and taken his young son, Roger, out of the state-after he had spent six months in the leprosarium-his books had seemed to him so blind and complacent, so destructive of himself, that he had burned them and given up writing.

But now, watching that fire in dreams, he felt for the first time the grief and outrage of seeing his handiwork destroyed. He jerked awake wide-eyed and sweating-and found that he could still hear the crackling hunger of the flames.

Joan's stables were on fire. He had not been to the place where she had formerly kept her horses for months, but he knew they contained nothing which could have started this blaze spontaneously. This was vandalism, revenge; this was what lay behind all those threatening phone calls.

The dry wood burned furiously, hurling itself up into the dark abyss of the night. And in it he saw Soaring Woodhelven in flames. He could smell in memory the smouldering dead of the tree village. He could feel himself killing Cavewights, incinerating them with an impossible power which seemed to rage out of the white gold of his wedding band.

Impossible!

He fled the fire, dashed back into his house and turned on the lights as if mere electric bulbs were his only shield against insanity and darkness.

Pacing there miserably around the safety of his living room, he remembered what had happened to him.

He had walked-leper outcast unclean! — into town from Haven Farm where he lived, to pay his phone bill, to pay it in person as an assertion of his common humanity against the hostility and revulsion and black charity of his fellow citizens. In the process, he had fallen down in front of a police car

And had found himself in another world. A place which could not possibly exist, and to which he could not possibly have travelled if it did exist: a place where lepers recovered their health.

That place had called itself “the Land.” And it had treated him like a hero because of his resemblance to Berek Halfhand, the legendary Lord-Fatherer- and because of his white gold ring. But he was not a hero. He had lost the last two fingers of his right hand, not in combat, but in surgery; they had been amputated because of the gangrene which had come with the onset of his disease. And the ring had been given to him by a woman who had divorced him because he was a leper. Nothing could have been less true than the Land's belief in him. And because he was in a false position, he had behaved with a subtle infidelity which now made him squirm.

Certainly none of those people had deserved his irrectitude. Not the Lords, the guardians of the health and beauty of the Land; not Saltheart Foamfollower, the Giant who had befriended him; not Atiaran Trell-mate, who had guided him safely toward Revelstone, the mountain city where the Lords lived; and not, oh, not her daughter Lena, whom he had raped.

Lena! he cried involuntarily, beating his numb fingers against his sides as he paced. How could I do that to you?

But he knew how it had happened. The health which the Land gave him had taken him by surprise. After months of impotence and repressed fury, he had not been prepared for the sudden rush of his vitality. And that vitality had other consequences, as well. It had seduced him into a conditional cooperation with the Land, though he knew that what was happening to him was impossible, a dream. Because of that health, he had taken to the Lords at Revelstone a message of doom given to him by the Land's great enemy, Lord Foul the Despiser. And he had gone with the Lords on their Quest for the Staff of Law, Berek's rune staff which had been lost by High Lord Kevin, last of the Old Lords, in his battle against the Despiser. This weapon the new Lords considered to be their only hope against their enemy; and he had unwillingly, faithlessly, helped them to regain it.

Then almost without transition he had found himself in a bed in the town's hospital. Only four hours had passed since his accident with the police car. His leprosy was unchanged. Because he appeared essentially uninjured, the doctor sent him back to his house on Haven Farm.

And now he had been roused from somnolence, and was pacing his lighted house as if it were an eyot of sanity in a night of darkness and chaos. Delusion! He had been deluded. The very idea of the Land sickened him. Health was impossible to lepers; that was the law on which his life depended. Nerves do not regenerate, and without a sense of touch there is no defence against injury and infection and dismemberment and death-no defence except the exigent law which he had learned in the leprosarium. The doctors there had taught him that his illness was the definitive fact of his existence, and that if he did not devote himself wholly, heart and mind and soul, to his own protection, he would ineluctably become crippled and putrescent before his ugly end.

That law had a logic which now seemed more infallible than ever. He had been seduced, however conditionally, by a delusion; and the results were deadly.

For two weeks now he had completely lost his grasp on survival, had not taken his medication, had not performed one VSE or any other drill, had not even shaved.

A dizzy nausea twisted in him. As he checked himself over, he was trembling uncontrollably.

But somehow he appeared to have escaped harm. His flesh showed no scrapes, burns, contusions, none of the fatal purple spots of resurgent leprosy.

Panting as if he had just survived an immersion in horror, he set about trying to regain his hold on his life.

Quickly, urgently, he took a large dose of his medication-DDS, diamino-dephenyl-sulfone. Then he went into the white fluorescence of his bathroom, stropped his old straight razor, and set the long sharp blade to his throat.

Shaving this way, with the blade clutched in the two fingers and thumb of his right hand, was a personal ritual which he had taught himself in order to discipline and mortify his unwieldy imagination. It steadied him almost in spite of himself. The danger of that keen metal so insecurely held helped him to concentrate, helped to rid him of false dreams and hopes, the alluring and suicidal progeny of his mind. The consequences of a slip were acid-etched in his brain. He could not ignore the law of his leprosy when he was so close to hurting himself, giving himself an injury which might reawaken the dormant rot of his nerves, cause infection and blindness, gnaw the flesh off his face until he was too loathsome to be beheld.

When he had shaved off two weeks of beard, he studied himself for a moment in the mirror. He saw a grey, gaunt man with leprosy riding the background of his eyes like a plague ship in a cold sea. And the sight gave him an explanation for his delusion. It was the doing of his subconscious mind-the blind despair work or cowardice of a brain that had been bereft of everything which had formerly given it meaning. The revulsion of his fellow human beings taught him to be revolted at himself, and this self-despite had taken him over while he had been helpless after his accident with the police car. He knew its name: it was a death wish. It worked in him subconsciously because his conscious mind was so grimly devoted to survival, to avoiding the outcome of his illness.

But he was not helpless now. He was awake and afraid.

When morning finally came, he called his lawyer, Megan Roman-a woman who handled his contracts and financial business-and told her what had happened to Joan's stables.

He could hear her discomfort clearly through the connection. “What do you want me to do, Mr. Covenant?”

“Get the police to investigate. Find out who did it. Make sure it doesn't happen again.”

She was silent for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then she said, “The police won't do it. You're in Sheriff Lytton's territory, and he won't do a thing for you. He's one of the people who thinks you should be run out of the county. He's been sheriff here a long time, and he gets pretty protective about `his' county. He thinks you're a threat. Just between you and me, I don't think he has any more humanity than he absolutely needs to get re-elected every two years.”

She was talking rapidly as if to keep him from saying anything, offering to do anything. “But I think I; can make him do something for you. If I threaten him-tell him you're going to come into town to press charges-I can make him make sure nothing like this happens again. He knows this county. You can bet he already knows who burned your stables.”

Joan's stables, Covenant answered silently. I don't like horses.

“He can keep those people from doing anything else. And he'll do it-if I scare him right.”

Covenant accepted this. He seemed to have no choice.

“Incidentally, some of the people around here have been trying to find some legal way to make you move. They're upset about that visit of yours. I've been telling them it's impossible-or at least more trouble than it's worth. So far, I think most of them believe me.”

He hung up with a shudder. He gave himself a thorough VSE, checking his body from head to foot for danger signs. Then he went about the task of trying to recover all his self-protective habits.

For a week or so, he made progress. He paced through the charted neatness of his house like a robot curiously aware of the machinery inside him, searching despite the limited functions of his programming-for one good answer to death. And when he left the house, walked out the driveway to pick up his groceries, or hiked for hours through the woods along Righters Creek in back of Haven Farm, he moved with an extreme caution, testing every rock and branch and breeze as if he suspected it of concealing malice.

But gradually he began to look about him, and as he did so some of his determination faltered. April was on the woods-the first signs of a spring which should have appeared beautiful to him. But at unexpected moments his sight seemed to go suddenly dim with sorrow as he remembered the spring of the Land. Compared to that, where the very health of the sap and buds was visible, palpable, discernible by touch and scent and sound, the woods he now walked looked sadly superficial. The trees and grass and hills had no savour, no depth of beauty. They could only remind him of Andelain and the taste of aliantha.

Then other memories began to disturb him. For several days, he could not get the woman who had died for him at the battle of Soaring Woodhelven out of his thoughts. He had never even known her name, never even asked her why she had devoted herself to him. She was like Atiaran and Foamfollower and Lena; she assumed that he had a right to such sacrifices.

Like Lena, about whom he could rarely bear to think, she made him ashamed; and with shame came anger-the old familiar leper's rage on which so much of his endurance depended. By hell! he fumed. They had no right. They had no right! But then the uselessness of his passion rebounded against him, and he was forced to recite to himself as if he were reading the catechism of his illness, Futility is the defining characteristic of life. Pain is the proof of existence. In the extremity of his moral solitude, he had no other answers.

At times like that, he found bitter consolation in psychological studies where a subject was sealed off from all sensory input, made blind, deaf, silent, and immobile, and as a result began to experience the most horrendous hallucinations. If conscious normal men and women could be placed so much at the mercy of their own inner chaos, surely one abject leper in a coma could have a dream that was worse than chaos — a dream specifically self-designed to drive him mad. At least what had happened to him did not altogether surpass comprehension.

Thus in one way or another he survived the days for nearly three weeks after the fire. At times he was almost aware that the unresolved stress within him was building toward a crisis; but repeatedly he repressed the knowledge, drove the idea down with anger. He did not believe he could endure another ordeal; he had handled the first one so badly.

But even the concentrated vitriol of his anger was not potent enough to protect him indefinitely. One Thursday morning, when he faced himself in the mirror to shave, the crisis abruptly surged up in him, and his hand began to shake so severely that he had to drop the razor in the sink in order to avoid cutting his jugular.

Two: Halfhand

BUT that decision itself was full of fear, and he did not act on it until evening. He spent most of the day cleaning his house as if he did not expect to return to it. Then, late in the afternoon, he shaved with the electric razor and showered meticulously. For the sake of prudence, he put on a tough pair of jeans, and laced his feet into heavy boots; but over his T-shirt he wore a dress shirt, tie, and sports coat, so that the informality of his jeans and boots would not be held against him. His wallet-generally so useless to him that he did not carry it-he placed in his coat pocket. And into a pocket of his trousers he stuffed a small, sharp penknife-a knife which he habitually took with him in case he lost control of his defensive concentration, and needed something dangerous to help him refocus himself. Finally, as the sun was setting, he walked down his long driveway to the road, where he extended his thumb to hitch a ride away from town.

The next place down the road was ten miles from Haven Farm, and it was bigger than the town where he had had his accident. He headed for it because he was less likely to be recognized there. But his first problem was to find a safe ride. If any of the local motorists spotted him, he was in trouble from the beginning.

In the first few minutes, three cars went by without stopping. The occupants stared at him in passing as if he were some kind of minor freak, but none of the drivers slowed down. Then, as the last sunlight faded into dusk, a large truck came toward him. He waved his thumb, and the truck rode to a halt just past him on the loud hissing of air brakes. He climbed up to the door, and was gestured into the cab by the driver.

The man was chewing over a black stubby cigar, and the air in the cab was thick with smoke. But through the dull haze, Covenant could see that he was big and burly, with a distended paunch, and one heavy arm that moved over the steering wheel like a piston, turning the truck easily. He had only that one arm; his right sleeve was empty, and pinned to his shoulder. Covenant understood dismemberment, and he felt a pang of sympathy for the driver.

“Where to, buddy?” the big man asked comfortably.

Covenant told him.

“No problem,” he responded to a tentative inflection in Covenant's tone. “I'm going right through there.” As the automatic transmission whined upward through its gears, he spat his cigar out the window, then let go of the wheel to unwrap and light a new smoke. While his hand was busy, he braced the wheel with his belly. The green light of the instrument panel did not reach his face, but the glow of the cigar coal illuminated massive features whenever he inhaled. In the surging red, his face looked like a pile of boulders.

With his new smoke going, he rested his arm on the wheel like a sphinx, and abruptly began talking. He had something on his mind.

“You live around here?”

Covenant said noncommittally, “Yes”

“How long? You know the people?”

“After a fashion.”

“You know this leper-this Thomas something-or-other Thomas Covenant?”

Covenant flinched in the gloom of the cab. To disguise his distress, he shifted his position on the seat. Awkwardly, he asked, “What's your interest?”

“Me? I got no interest. Just passing through-hauling my ass where they give me a load to go. I never even been around here before. But where I et at back in town I heard talk about this guy. So I ask the broad at the counter, and she damn near yaks my ear off. One question-and I get instant mouth with everything I eat. You know what a leper is?”

Covenant squirmed. “After a fashion.”

“Well, it's a mess, let me tell you. My old lady reads about this stuff all the time in the Bible. Dirty beggars. Unclean. I didn't know there was creeps like that in America. But that's what we're coming to. You know what I think?”

“What do you think?” Covenant asked dimly.

“I think them lepers ought to leave decent folks alone. Like that broad at the counter. She's okay, even with that motor mouth, but there she is, juiced to the gills on account of some sick bastard. That Covenant guy ought to stop thinking of his self. Other folks don't need that aggravation. He ought to go away with every other leper and stick to his self, leave decent folks alone. It's just selfishness, expecting ordinary guys like you and me to put up with that. You know what I mean?”

The cigar smoke in the cab was as thick as incense, and it made Covenant feel light-headed. He kept shifting his weight, as if the falseness of his position gave him an uncomfortable seat. But the talk and his vague vertigo made him feel vengeful. For a moment, he forgot his sympathy. He turned his wedding ring forcefully around his finger. As they neared the city limits, he said, “I'm going to a nightclub just up the road here. How about joining me for a drink?”

Without hesitation, the trucker said, “Buddy, you're on. I never pass up a free drink.”

But they were still several stoplights from the club. To fill the silence, and satisfy his curiosity, Covenant asked the driver what had happened to his arm.

“Lost it in the war.” He brought the truck to a stop at a light while adjusting his cigar in his lips and steering with his paunch. "We was on patrol, and walked right into one of them antipersonnel mines. Blew the squad to hell. I had to crawl back to camp. Took me two days-I sort of got unhinged, you know what I mean? Didn't always know what I was doing. Time I got to the doc, it was too late to save the arm.

“What the hell, I don't need it. Least my old lady says I don't-and she ought to know by now.” He chuckled. “Don't need no two arms for that.”

Ingenuously, Covenant asked, “Did you have any trouble getting a license to drive this rig?”

“You kidding? I can handle this baby better with my gut than you can with four arms and sober.” He grinned around his cigar, relishing his own humour.

The man's geniality touched Covenant. Already he regretted his duplicity. But shame always made him angry, stubborn-a leper's conditioned reflex. When the truck was parked behind the nightclub, he pushed open the door of the cab and jumped to the ground as if he were in a hurry to get away from his companion.

Riding in the darkness, he had forgotten how far off the ground he was. An instant of vertigo caught him. He landed awkwardly, almost fell. His feet felt nothing, but the jolt gave an added throb to the ache of his ankles.

Over his moment of dizziness, he heard the driver say, “You know, I figured you got a head start on the booze.”

To avoid meeting the man's stony, speculative stare, Covenant went ahead of him around toward the front of the nightclub.

As he rounded the corner, Covenant nearly collided with a battered old man wearing dark glasses. The old man stood with his back to the building, extending n bruised tin cup toward the passersby, and following their movements with his ears. He held his head high, but it trembled slightly on his thin neck; and he was singing “Blessed Assurance” as if it were a dirge. Under one arm he carried a white-tipped cane. When Covenant veered away from him, he waved his cup vaguely in that direction.

Covenant was leery of beggars. He remembered the tattered fanatic who had accosted him like an introduction or preparation just before the onset of his delusion. The memory made him alert to a sudden tension in the night. He stepped close to the blind man and peered into his face.

The beggar's song did not change inflection, but he turned an ear toward Covenant, and poked his cup at Covenant's chest.

The truck driver stopped behind Covenant. “Hell,” he growled, “they're swarming. It's like a disease. Come on. You promised me a drink.”

In the light of the streetlamp, Covenant could see that this was not that other beggar, the fanatic. But still the man's blindness affected him. His sympathy for the maimed rushed up in him. Pulling his wallet out of his jacket, he took twenty dollars and stuffed them in the tin cup.

“Twenty bucks!” ejaculated the driver. “Are you simple, or what? You don't need no drink, buddy. You need a keeper.”

Without a break in his song, the blind man put out a gnarled hand, crumpled the bills, and hid them away somewhere in his rags. Then he turned and went tapping dispassionately away down the sidewalk, secure in the private mysticism of the blind-singing as he moved about “a foretaste of glory divine.”

Covenant watched his back fade into the night, then swung around toward his companion. The driver was a head taller than Covenant, and carried his bulk solidly on thick legs. His cigar gleamed like one of Drool Rockworm's eyes.

Drool, Covenant remembered, Lord Foul's mad, Cavewightish servant or pawn. Drool had found the Staff of Law, and had been destroyed by it or because of it. His death had released Covenant from the Land.

Covenant poked a numb finger at the trucker's chest, trying vainly to touch him, taste his actuality. “Listen,” he said, “I'm serious about that drink. But I should tell you”-he swallowed, then forced himself to say it “I'm Thomas Covenant. That leper.”

The driver snorted around his cigar. “Sure, buddy. And I'm Jesus Christ. If you blew your wad, say so. But don't give me that leper crap. You're just simple, is all.”

Covenant scowled up at the man for a moment longer. Then he said resolutely, “Well, in any case, I'm not broke. Not yet. Come on.”

Together, they went on to the entrance of the nightclub. It was called The Door. In keeping with its name, the place had a wide iron gate like a portal into Hades. The gate was lit in a sick green, but spotlighted whitely at its centre was a large poster which bore the words:

Positively the last night

America's newest singing sensation

SUSIE THURSTON

Included was a photograph which tried to make Susie Thurston look alluring. But the flashy gloss of the print had aged to an ambiguous grey.

Covenant gave himself a perfunctory VSE, adjured his courage, and walked into the nightclub, holding his breath as if he were entering the first circle of hell.

Inside, the club was crowded; Susie Thurston's farewell performance was well attended. Covenant and his companion took the only seats they could find-at a small table near the stage. The table was already occupied by a middle-aged man in a tired suit. Something about the way he held his glass suggested that he had been drinking for some time. When Covenant asked to join him, he did not appear to notice. He stared in the direction of the stage with round eyes, looking as solemn as a bird.

The driver discounted him with a brusque gesture. He turned a chair around, and straddled it as if bracing the burden of his belly against the chair back. Covenant took the remaining seat and tucked himself close to the table, to reduce the risk of being struck by anyone passing between the tables.

The unaccustomed press of people afflicted him with anxiety. He sat still, huddling into himself. A fear of exposure beat on his pulse, and he gripped himself hard, breathing deeply as if resisting an attack of vertigo; surrounded by people who took no notice of him, he felt vulnerable. He was taking too big a chance. But they were people, superficially like himself. He repulsed the urge to flee. Gradually, he realized that his companion was waiting for him to order.

Feeling vaguely ill and defenceless, he raised his arm and attracted the waiter's attention. The driver ordered a double Scotch on the rocks. Apprehension momentarily paralyzed Covenant's voice, but then he forced himself to request a gin and tonic. He regretted the order at once; gin and tonic had been Joan's drink. But he did not change it. He could hardly help sighing with relief when the waiter moved away.

Through the clutch of his tension, he felt that the order came with almost miraculous promptitude. Swirling around the table, the waiter deposited three drinks, including a glass of something that looked like raw alcohol for the middle-aged man. Raising his glass, the driver downed half his drink, grimaced, and muttered, “Sugar water.” The solemn man poured his alcohol past his jumping Adam's apple in one movement.

A part of Covenant's mind wondered if he were going to end up paying for all three of them.

Reluctantly, he tasted his gin and tonic, and almost gagged in sudden anger. The lime in the drink reminded him intensely of aliantha. Pathetic! he snarled at himself. For punishment, he drank off the rest of the gin, and signalled to the waiter for more. Abruptly he determined to get drunk.

When the second round came, the waiter again brought three drinks. Covenant looked stiffly at his companions. Then the three of them drank as if they had tacitly engaged each other in a contest.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the driver leaned forward and said, “Buddy, I got to warn you. It's your dough. I can drink you under the table.”

To give the third man an opening, Covenant replied, “I think our friend here is going to last longer than both of us.”

“What, a little guy like him?” There was humour in the trucker's tone, an offer of comradeship. “No way. No way at all.”

But the solemn man did not recognize the driver's existence with even a flick of his eyes. He kept staring into the stage as if it were an abyss.

For a while, his gloom presided over the table. Covenant ordered again, and a few minutes later the waiter brought out a third round-three more drinks. This time, the trucker stopped him. In a jocose way as if he were assuming responsibility for Covenant, he jerked his thumb at the middle-aged man and said, “I hope you know we ain't payin' for him.”

“Sure.” The waiter was bored. “He has a standing order. Pays in advance.” Disdain seemed to tighten his face, pulling it together like the closing of a fist around his nose. “Comes here every night just to watch her and drink himself blind.” Then someone else signalled to him, and he was gone.

For a moment, the third man said nothing. Slowly, the houselights went down, and an expectant hush dropped like a shroud over the packed club. Then into the silence the man croaked quietly, “My wife.”

A spotlight centred on the stage, and the club MC came out of the wings. Behind him, musicians took their places-a small combo, casually dressed.

The MC flashed out a smile, started his spiel. “It makes me personally sad to introduce our little lady tonight, because this is the last time she'll be with us for a while, at least. She's going on from here to the places where famous people get famouser. We at The Door won't soon forget her. Remember, you heard her here first. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Susie Thurston!”

The spotlight picked up the singer as she came out, carrying a hand microphone. She wore a leather outfit — a skirt that left most of her legs bare and a sleeveless vest with a fringe across her breasts, emphasizing their movement. Her blond hair was bobbed short, and her eyes were dark, surrounded by deep hollow circles like bruises. She had a full and welcoming figure, but her face denied it; she wore the look of an abandoned waif. In a pure, frail voice that would have been good for supplication, she sang a set of love ballads defiantly, as if they were protest songs. The applause after each number was thunderous, and Covenant quaked at the sound. When the set was over and Susie Thurston retired for a break, he was sweating coldly.

The gin seemed to be having no effect on him. But he needed some kind of help. With an aspect of desperation, he signalled for another round. To his relief, the waiter brought the drinks soon.

After he had downed his Scotch, the driver hunched forward purposefully, and said, “I think I got this bastard figured out.”

The solemn man was oblivious to his tablemates. Painfully, he croaked again, “My wife.”

Covenant wanted to keep the driver from talking about the third man so openly, but before he could distract him, his guest went on, “He's doing it out of spite, that's what.”

“Spite?” echoed Covenant helplessly. He missed the connection. As far as he could tell, their companion — doubt happily or at least doggedly married, no doubt childless — had somehow conceived a hopeless passion for the waif-woman behind the microphone. Such things happened. Torn between his now-grim fidelity and his obdurate need, he could do nothing but torment himself in search of release, drink himself into stupefaction staring at the thing he wanted and both could not and should not have.

With such ideas about their tablemate, Covenant was left momentarily at sea by the driver's comment. But the big man went on almost at once. “Course. What'd you think, being a leper is fun? He's thinking he'll just sort of share it around. Why be the only one, you know what I mean? That's what this bastard thinks. Take my word, buddy. I got him figured out.” As he spoke, his cobbled face loomed before Covenant like a pile of thetic rubble. “What he does, he goes around where he ain't known, and he hides it, like, so nobody knows he's sick. That way he spreads it; nobody knows so they don't take care, and all of a sudden we got us an epidemic. Which makes Covenant laugh hisself crazy. Spite, like I tell you. You take my word. Don't go shaking hands when you don't know the guy you're shaking with.”

Dully, the third man groaned, “My wife.”

Gripping his wedding band as if it had the power to protect him, Covenant said intently, “Maybe that isn't it. Maybe he just needs people. Do you ever get lonely — driving that rig all alone, hour after hour? Maybe this Thomas Covenant just can't stand to go on living without seeing other faces once in a while. Did you think about that?”

“So let him stick to lepers. What call is he got to bother decent folks? Use your head.”

Use my head? Covenant almost shouted. Hellfire! What do you think I'm doing? Do you think I like doing this, being here? A grimace that he could not control clutched his face, Fuming, he waved for more drinks. The alcohol seemed to be working in reverse, tightening his tension rather than loosening it. But he was too angry to know whether or not he was getting drunk. The air swarmed with the noise of The Door's patrons. He was conscious of the people behind him as if they lurked there like ur-viles.

When the drinks came, he leaned forward to refute the driver's arguments. But he was stopped by the dimming of the lights for Susie Thurston's second set.

Bleakly, their tablemate groaned, “My wife.” His voice was starting to blur around the edges; whatever he was drinking was finally affecting him.

In the moment of darkness before the MC came on, the driver responded, “You mean that broad's your wife?”

At that, the man moaned as though in anguish.

After a quick introduction, Susie Thurston reseated herself within the spotlight. Over a querulous accompaniment from her combo, she put some sting into her voice, and sang about the infidelities of men. After two numbers, there were slow tears running from the dark wounds of her eyes.

The sound of her angry laments made Covenant's throat hurt. He regretted fiercely that he was not drunk. He would have liked to forget people and vulnerability and stubborn survival-forget and weep.

But her next song burned him. With her head back so that her white throat gleamed in the light, she sang a song that ended,

Let go my heart—

Your love makes me look small to myself.

Now, I don't want to give you any hurt,

But what I feel is part of myself:

What you want turns what I've got to dirt—

So let go of my heart.

Applause leaped on the heels of her last note, as if the audience were perversely hungry for her pain. Covenant could not endure any more. Buffeted by the noise, he threw dollars-did not count them-on the table, and shoved back his chair to escape.

But when he moved around the table, he passed within five feet of the singer. Suddenly she saw him. Spreading her arms, she exclaimed joyfully, “Berek!”

Covenant froze, stunned and terrified. No!

Susie Thurston was transported. “Hey!” she called, waving her arms to silence the applause, “Get a spot out here! On him! Berek! Berek, honey!”

From over the stage, a hot white light spiked down at Covenant. Impaled in the glare, he turned to face the singer, blinking rapidly and aching with fear and rage.

No!

“Ladies and gentlemen, kind people, I want you to meet an old friend of mine, a dear man.” Susie Thurston was excited and eager. “He taught me half the songs I know. Folks, this is Berek.” She began clapping for him as she said, “Maybe he'll sing for us:” Good-naturedly, the audience joined her applause.

Covenant's hands limped about him, searching for support. In spite of his efforts to control himself, he stared at his betrayer with a face full of pain. The applause reverberated in his ears, made him dizzy.

No!

For a long moment, he cowered under Susie Thurston's look. Then, like a wash of revelation, all the houselights came on. Over the bewildered murmurs and rustlings of the audience, a commanding voice snapped, “Covenant.”

Covenant spun as if to ward off an attack. In the doorway, he saw two men. They both wore black hats and khaki uniforms, pistols in black holsters, silver badges; but one of them towered over the other. Sheriff Lytton. He stood with his fists on his hips. As Covenant gaped at him, he beckoned with two fingers. “You, Covenant. Come here.”

“Covenant?” the trucker yelped. “You're really Covenant?”

Covenant heeled around awkwardly, as if under tattered canvas, to meet this fresh assault. As he focused his eyes on the driver, he saw that the big man's face was flushed with vehemence. He met the red glare as bravely as he could. “I told you I was.”

“Now I'm going to get it!” the driver grated. “We're all going to get it! What the hell's the matter with you?”

The patrons of The Door were thrusting to their feet to watch what was happening. Over their heads, the sheriff shouted, “Don't touch him!” and began wading through the crowd.

Covenant lost his balance in the confusion. He tripped, caught something like a thumb or the corner of a chair in his eye, and sprawled under a table.

People yelled and milled around. The sheriff roared orders through the din. Then with one heave of his arm, he knocked away the table over Covenant.

Covenant looked gauntly up from the floor. His bruised eye watered thickly, distorting everything over him. With the back of his hand, he pushed away the tears. Blinking and concentrating fiercely, he made out two men standing above him-the sheriff and his former tablemate.

Swaying slightly on locked knees, the solemn man looked dispassionately down at Covenant. In a smudged and expended voice, he delivered his verdict. “My wife is the finest woman in the world.”

The sheriff pushed the man away, then bent over Covenant, brandishing a face full of teeth. "That's enough. I'm just looking for something to charge you with, so don't give me any trouble. You hear me? Get up.

Covenant felt too weak to move, and he could not see clearly. But he did not want the kind of help the sheriff might give him. He rolled over and pushed himself up from the floor.

He reached his feet, listing badly to one side; but the sheriff made no move to support him. He braced himself on the back of a chair, and looked defiantly around the hushed spectators. At last, the gin seemed to be affecting him. He pulled himself erect, adjusted his tie with a show of dignity.

“Get going,” the sheriff commanded from his superior height.

But for one more moment Covenant did not move. Though he could not be sure of anything he saw, he stood where he was and gave himself a VSE.

“Get going,” Lytton repeated evenly.

“Don't touch me.” When his VSE was done, Covenant turned and stalked greyly out of the nightclub.

Out in the cool April night, he breathed deeply, steadying himself. The sheriff and his deputy herded him toward a squad car. Its red warning lights flashed balefully. When he was locked into the back seat behind the protective steel grating, the two officers climbed into the front. While the deputy drove away in the direction of Haven Farm, the sheriff spoke through the grating.

"Took us too long to find you, Covenant. The

Millers reported you were trying to hitch a ride, and we figured you were going to try your tricks somewhere. Just couldn't tell where. But it's still my county, and you're walking trouble. There's no law against you-I can't arrest you for what you've done. But it sure was mean. Listen, you. Taking care of this county is my business, and don't you forget it. I don't want to hunt around like this for you. You pull this stunt again, and I'll throw you in the can for disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, and everything else I can think of. You got that?"

Shame and rage struggled in Covenant, but he could find no way to let them out. He wanted to yell through the grate, It isn't catching! It's not my fault! But his throat was too constricted; he could not release the wail. At last, he could only mumble, “Let me out. I'll walk.”

Sheriff Lytton regarded him closely, then said to the deputy, “All right. We'll let him walk. Maybe he'll have an accident.” Already they were well out of town.

The deputy drove to a halt on the beret, and the sheriff let Covenant out. For a moment, they stood together in the night. The sheriff glared at him as if trying to measure his capacity to do harm. Then Lytton said, “Go home. Stay home.” He got back into the car. It made a loud squealing turn and fled back toward town. An instant later, Covenant sprang into the road and cried after the taillights, “Leper outcast unclean!” They looked as red as blood in the darkness.

His shout did not seem to dent the silence. Before long, he turned back toward Haven Farm, feeling as small as if the few stars in the dense black sky were deriding him. He had ten miles to walk.

The road was deserted. He moved in empty stillness like a hiatus in his surroundings; though he was retreating into open countryside, he could hear no sounds, no night talk of birds or insects. The silence made him feel deaf and alone, vulnerable to the hurrying vultures at his back.

It was a delusion! He raised his protest like a defiance; but even to his ears, it had the hollow ring of despair, composed equally of defeat and stubbornness. Through it, he could hear the girl shouting Berek! like the siren of a nightmare.

Then the road went through a stand of trees which cut out the dim light of the stars. He could not feel the pavement with his feet; he was in danger of missing his way, of falling into a ditch or injuring himself against a tree. He tried to keep up his pace, but the risk was too great, and finally he was reduced to waving his arms before him and testing his footing like a blind man. Until he reached the end of the woods, he moved as if he were wandering lost in a dream, damp with sweat, and cold.

After that, he set a hard pace for himself. He was spurred on by the cries that rushed after him, Berek! Berek! When at last, long miles later, he reached the driveway into Haven Farm, he was almost running,

In the sanctuary of his house, he turned on all the lights and locked the doors. The organized chastity of his living space surrounded him with its unconsoling dogma. A glance at the kitchen clock told him that the time was just past midnight. A new day, Sunday — a day when other people worshiped. He started some coffee, threw off his jacket, tie, and dress shirt, then carried his steaming cup into the living room. There he took a position on the sofa, adjusted Joan's picture on the coffee table so that it looked straight at him, and braced himself to weather the crisis.

He needed an answer. His resources were spent, and he could not go on the way he was.

Berek!

The girl's shout, and the raw applause of her audience, and the trucker's outrage, reverberated in him like muffled earth tremors. Suicide loomed in all directions. He was trapped between mad delusion and the oppressive weight of his fellow human beings.

Leper outcast unclean!

He gripped his shoulders and hugged himself to try to still the gasping of his heart.

I can't stand it! Somebody help me!

Suddenly, the phone rang-cut through him as stridently as a curse. Disjointedly, like a loose collection of broken bones, he jumped to his feet. But then he did not move. He lacked the courage to face more hostility, indemnification.

The phone shrilled again.

His breath shuddered in his lungs. Joan seemed to reproach him from behind the glass of the picture frame.

Another ring, as insistent as a fist.

He lurched toward the phone. Snatching up the receiver, he pressed it to his ear to hold it steady.

“Tom?” a faint, sad voice sighed. “Tom-it's Joan. Tom? I hope I didn't wake you. I know it's late, but I had to call. Tom?”

Covenant stood straight and stiff, at attention, with his knees locked to keep him from falling. His jaw worked, but he made no sound. His throat felt swollen shut, clogged with emotions, and his lungs began to hurt for air.

“Tom? Are you there? Hello? Tom? Please say something. I need to talk to you. I've been so lonely. I–I miss you.” He could hear the effort in her voice.

His chest heaved fiercely, as if he were choking. Abruptly he broke through the block in his throat, and took a deep breath that sounded as if he were between sobs. But still he could not force up words.

“Tom! Please! What's happening to you?”

His voice seemed to be caught in a death grip. Desperate to shatter the hold, to answer Joan, cling to her voice, keep her on the line, he picked up the phone and started back toward the sofa-hoping that movement would ease the spasm that clenched him, help him regain control of his muscles.

But be turned the wrong way, wrapping the phone cord around his ankle. As he jerked forward, he tripped and pitched headlong toward the coffee table. His forehead struck the edge of the table squarely. When he hit the floor, he seemed to feel himself bounce.

Instantly, his sight went blank. But he still had the receiver clutched to his ear. During a moment of white stillness, he heard Joan's voice clearly. She was becoming upset, angry.

“Tom, I'm serious. Don't make this any harder for me than it already is. Don't you understand? I want to talk to you. I need you. Say something. Tom. Tom! Damn you, say something!”

Then a wide roaring in his ears washed out her voice. No! he cried. No! But he was helpless. The rush of sound came over him like a dark tide, and carried him away.

Three: The Summoning

THE wide roar modulated slowly, changing the void of his sight. On the surge of the sound, a swath of grey-green spread upward until it covered him like a winding sheet. The hue of the green was noxious to him, and he felt himself smothering in its close, sweet, fetid reek-the smell of attar. But the note which filled his ears grew more focused, scaled up in pitch. Droplets of gold bled into view through the green. Then the sound turned softer and more plaintive, higher still in pitch, so that it became a low human wail. The gold forced back the green. Soon a warm, familiar glow filled his eyes.

As the sound turned more and more into a woman's song, the gold spread and deepened-cradled him as if it were carrying him gently along the flood of the voice. The melody wove the light, gave it texture and shape, solidity. Helpless to do otherwise, he clung to the sound, concentrated on it with his mouth stretched open in protest.

Slowly, the singing throat opened. Its harmonic pattern became sterner, more demanding. Covenant felt himself pulled forward now, hurried down the tide of the song. Arching with supplication, it took on words.

Be true, Unbeliever—

Answer the call.

Life is the Giver:

Death ends all.

The promise is truth,

And banes disperse

With promise kept:

But soul's deep curse

On broken faith

And faithless thrall,

For doom of darkness

Covers all.

Be true, Unbeliever—

Answer the call.

Be true.

The song seemed to reach back into him, stirring memories, calling up people he had once, in one fey mood, thought had the right to make demands of him. But he resisted it. He kept silent, held himself in.

The melody drew him on into the warm gold.

At last, the light took on definition. He could locate its shape before him now; it washed out his vision as if he were staring into the sun. But on the last words of the song, the light dimmed, lost its brilliance. As the voice sang, “Be true,” it was seconded by many throats: “Be true!” That adjuration stretched him like: the tightening of a string to its final pitch.

Then the source of the light fell into scale, and he could see beyond it.

He recognized the place. He was in the Close, the council chamber of the Lords in the heart of Revel-.: stone. Its tiers of seats reached above him on all sides toward the granite ceiling of the hall.

He was surprised to find himself standing erect on the bottom of the Close. The stance confused his sense of balance, and he stumbled forward toward the pit of graveling, the source of the gold light. The fire-stones burned there before him without consumption, filling the air with the smell of newly broken earth.

Strong hands caught him by either arm. As his fall was halted, drops of blood spattered onto the stone floor at the edge of the graveling pit.

Regaining his feet, he cried hoarsely, “Don't touch me!”

He was dizzy with confusion and rage, but he braced himself while he put a hand to his forehead. His fingers came away covered with blood. He had cut himself badly on the edge of the table. For a moment, he gaped at his red hand.

Through his dismay, a quiet, firm voice said, “Be welcome in the Land, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and Ringthane. I have called you to us. Our need for your aid is great.”

“You called me?” he croaked.

“I am Elena,” the voice replied, “High Lord by the choice of the Council, and holder of the Staff of Law. I have called you.”

“You called me?” Slowly, he raised his eyes. Thick wetness ran from the sockets as if he were weeping blood. “You called me?” He felt a crumbling inside him like rocks breaking, and his hold over himself cracked. In a voice of low anguish, he said, “I was talking to Joan.”

He saw the woman dimly through the blood in his eyes. She stood behind the stone table on the level above him, holding a long staff in her right hand. There were other people around the table, and behind them the gallery of the Close held many more. They were all watching him.

“To Joan, do you understand? I was talking to Joan. She called me. After all this time. When I needed-needed. You have no right.” He gathered force like a storm wind. “You've got no right! I was talking to Joan!” He shouted with all his might, but it was not enough. His voice could not do justice to his emotion. “To Joan! to Joan! do you hear me? She was my wife!”

A man who had been standing near the High Lord hurried around the broad open C of the table, and came down to Covenant on the lower level. Covenant recognized the man's lean face, with its rudder nose mediating between crooked, humane lips and acute, gold flecked, dangerous eyes. He was Lord Mhoram.

He placed a hand on Covenant's arm, and said softly, “My friend. What has happened to you?”

Savagely, Covenant threw off the Lord's hand. “Don't touch me!” he raged in Mhoram's face. “Are you deaf as well as blind?! I was talking to Joan! On the phone!” His hand jerked convulsively, struggling to produce the receiver out of the empty air. “She needed”-abruptly his throat clenched, and he swallowed roughly-“she said she needed me. Me!” But his voice was helpless to convey the crying of his heart. He slapped at the blood on his forehead, trying to clear his eyes.

The next instant, he grabbed the front of Mhoram's sky-blue robe in his fists, hissed, “Send me back! There's still time! If I can get back fast enough!”

Above them, the woman spoke carefully. “Ur-Lord Covenant, it grieves me to hear that our summoning has done you harm. Lord Mhoram has told us all he could of your pain, and we do not willingly increase it. But it is our doom that we must. Unbeliever, our need is great. The devastation of the Land is nearly upon us.”

Pushing away from Mhoram to confront her, Covenant fumed, “I don't give a bloody damn about the Land!” His words came in such a panting rush that he could not shout them. “I don't care what you need. You can drop dead for all I care. You're a delusion! A sickness in my mind. You don't exist! Send me back! You've got to send me back. While there's still time!”

“Thomas Covenant.” Mhoram spoke in a tone of authority that pulled Covenant around. “Unbeliever. Listen to me.”

Then Covenant saw that Mhoram had changed. His face was still the same-the gentleness of his mouth still balanced the promise of peril in his gold concentrated irises-but he was older, old enough now to be Covenant's father. There were lines of use around his eyes and mouth, and his hair was salted with white. When he spoke, his lips twisted with self-deprecation, and the depths of his eyes stirred uneasily. But he met the fire of Covenant's glare without flinching.

“My friend, if the choice were mine, I would return you at once to your world. The decision to summon you was painfully made, and I would willingly undo it. The Land has no need of service which is not glad and free. But, ur-Lord he gripped Covenant's arm again to steady him- ”my friend, we cannot return you."

“Cannot?” Covenant groaned on a rising, half hysterical note.

“We have no lore for the releasing of burdens. I know not how it is in your world-you appear unchanged to my eyes but forty years have passed since we stood together on the slopes of Mount Thunder, and you freed the Staff of Law for our hands. For long years we have striven-”

“Cannot?” Covenant repeated more fiercely.

“We have striven with power which we fail to master, and Lore which we have been unable to penetrate. It has taken forty years to bring us here, so that we may ask for your aid. We have reached the limit of what we can do.”

“No!” He turned away because he could not bear the honesty he saw in Mhoram's face, and yelled up at the woman with the Staff, “Send me back!”

For a moment, she looked at him squarely, measuring the extremity of his demand. Then she said, “I entreat you to understand. Hear the truth of our words. Lord Mhoram has spoken openly. I hear the hurt we have done you. I am not unmoved.” She was twenty or thirty feet away from him, beyond the pit of graveling and behind the stone table, but her voice carried to him clearly through the crystal acoustics of the Close. “But I cannot undo your summoning. Had I the power, still the Land's need would deny me. Lord Foul the Despiser-”

Head back, arms thrown wide, Covenant howled, "I don't came!'

Stung into sharpness, the High Lord said, “Then return yourself. You have the power. You wield the white gold.”

With a cry, Covenant tried to charge at her. But before he could take a step, he was caught from behind. Wrestling around, he found himself in the grasp of Bannor, the unsleeping Bloodguard who had warded him during his previous delusion.

“We are the Bloodguard,” Bannor said in his toneless alien inflection. “The care of the Lords is in our hands. We do not permit any offer of harm to the High Lord.”

“Bannor,” Covenant pleaded, “she was my wife.”

But Bannor only gazed at him with unblinking dispassion.

Throwing his weight wildly, he managed to turn in the Bloodguard's powerful grip until he was facing Elena again. Blood scattered from his forehead as he jerked around. “She was my wife!”

“Enough,” Elena commanded.

“Send me back!”

“Enough!” She stamped the iron heel of the Staff of Law on the floor, and at once blue fire burst from its length. The flame roared vividly, like a rent in the fabric of the gold light, letting concealed power shine through; and the force of the flame drove Covenant back into Bannor's arms. But her hand where she held the Staff was untouched. “I am the High Lord,” she said sternly. “This is Revelstone Lord's Keep, not Foul's Creche. We have sworn the Oath of Peace.”

At a nod from her, Bannor released Covenant, and he stumbled backward, falling in a heap beside the graveling. He lay on the stone for a moment, gasping harshly. Then he pried himself into a sitting position His head seemed to droop with defeat. “You'll get Peace,” he groaned. “He's going to destroy you all.: Did you say forty years? You've only got nine left. Or have you forgotten his prophecy?”

“We know;” Mhoram said quietly. “We do not forget.” With a crooked smile, he bent to examine Covenant's wound.

While Mhoram did this, High Lord Elena quenched the blaze of the Staff, and said to a person Covenant could not see, “We must deal with this matter now, if we are to have any hope of the white gold. Have the captive brought here.”

Lord Mhoram mopped Covenant's forehead gently, peered at the cut, then stood and moved away to consult with someone. Left alone, with most of the blood out of his eyes, Covenant brought his throbbing gaze into focus to take stock of where he was. Some still-uncowed instinct for self-preservation made him try to measure the hazards around him. He was on the lowest level of the tiered chamber, and its high vaulted and groined ceiling arched over him, lit by the gold glow of the graveling, and by four large smokeless lillianrill torches set into the walls. Around the centre of the Close, on the next level, was the three-quarters-round stone council table of the Lords, and above and behind the table were the ranked seats of the gallery. Two Bloodguard stood at the high massive doors, made by Giants to be large enough for Giants, of the main entryway, above and opposite the High Lord's seat.

The gallery was diversely filled with warriors of the Wayward of Lord's Keep, Lorewardens from the Loresraat, several Hirebrands and Gravelingases dressed respectively in their traditional cloaks and tunics, and a few more Bloodguard. High up behind the High Lord sat two people Covenant thought he recognized-the Gravelingas Tohrm, a Hearthrall of Lord's Keep; and Quaan, the Warhaft who had accompanied the Quest for the Staff of Law. With them were two others-one a Hirebrand, judging by his Woodhelvennin cloak and the circlet of leaves about his head, probably the other Hearthrall; and one the First Mark of the Bloodguard. Vaguely, Covenant wondered who had taken that position after the loss of Tuvor in the catacombs under Mount Thunder.

His gaze roamed on around the Close. Standing at the table were seven Lords, not counting the High Lord and Mhoram. Covenant recognized none of them. They must all have passed the tests and joined the Council in the last forty, years. Forty years? he asked dimly. Mhoram had aged, but he did not look forty years older. And Tohrm, who had been hardly more than a laughing boy when Covenant had known him, now seemed far too young for middle age. The Bloodguard were not changed at all. Of course, Covenant groaned to himself, remembering how old they were said to be. Only Quaan showed a believable age: white thinning hair gave the former Warhaft the look of sixty or sixty-five summers. But his square commanding shoulders did not stoop. And the openness of his countenance had not changed; he frowned down on the Unbeliever with exactly the frank disapproval that Covenant remembered.

He did not see Prothall anywhere. Prothall had been the High Lord during the Quest, and Covenant knew that he had survived the final battle on the slopes of Mount Thunder. But he also knew that Prothall had been old enough to die naturally in forty years. In spite of his pain, he found himself hoping that the former High Lord had died as he deserved, in peace and honour.

With a sour mental shrug, he moved his survey to the one man at the Lords' table who was not standing. This individual was dressed like a warrior, with high, soft-soled boots over black leggings, a black sleeveless shirt under a breastplate moulded of a yellow metal, and a yellow headband; but on his breastplate were the double black diagonal marks which distinguished him as the Warmark, the commander of the Wayward, the Lords' army. He was not looking at anyone. He sat back in his stone chair, with his head down and his eyes covered with one hand, as if he were asleep.

Covenant turned away, let his gaze trudge at random around the Close. High Lord Elena was conferring in low tones with the Lords nearest her. Mhoram stood waiting near the broad stairs leading up to the main doors. The acoustics of the chamber carried the commingled voices of the gallery to Covenant, so that the air was murmurous about his head. He wiped the gathering blood from his brows, and thought about dying.

It would be worth it, he mused. After all it would be worth it to escape. He was not tough enough to persevere when even his dreams turned against him. He should leave living to the people who were potent for it.

Ah, hellfire, he sighed. Hellfire.

Distantly, he heard the great doors of the Close swing open. The murmuring in the air stopped at once; everyone turned and looked toward the doors. Forcing himself to spend some of his waning strength, Covenant twisted around to see who was coming.

The sight struck him cruelly, seemed to take the last rigor out of his bones.

He watched with bloodied eyes as two Bloodguard came down the stairs, holding upright between them a green-grey creature that oozed with fear. Though they were not handling it roughly, the creature trembled in terror and revulsion. Its hairless skin was slick with sweat. It had a generally human outline, but its torso was unusually long, and its limbs were short, all equal in length, as if it naturally ran on four legs through low caves. But its limbs were bent and useless-contorted as if they had been broken many times and not reset. And the rest of its body showed signs of worse damage.

Its head was its least human feature. Its bald skull had no eyes. Above the ragged slit of its mouth, in the centre of its face, were two wide, wet nostrils that quivered fearfully around the edges as the creature smelled its situation. Its small pointed ears perched high on its skull. And the whole back of its head was gone. Over the gap was a green membrane like a scar, pulsing against the remaining fragment of a brain.

Covenant knew immediately what it was. He had seen a creature like it once before-whole in body, but dead, lying on the floor of its Waymeet with an iron spike through its heart.

It was a Waynhim. A Demondim-spawn, like the ur-viles. But unlike their black roynish kindred, the Waynhim had devoted their lore to the services of the Land.

This Waynhim had been lavishly tortured.

The Bloodguard brought the creature down to the bottom of the Close, and held it opposite Covenant. Despite his deep weakness, he forced himself to his feet, and kept himself up by leaning against the wall of the next level. Already, he seemed to be regaining some of the added dimension of sight which characterized the Land. He could see into the Waynhim could feel with his eyes what had been done to it. He saw torment and extravagant pain-saw the healthy body of the Waynhim caught in a fist of malice, and crushed gleefully into this crippled shape. The sight made his eyes hurt. He had to lock his knees to brace himself up. A cold mist of hebetude and despair filled his head, and he was, glad for the blood which clogged his eyes; it preserved him from seeing the Waynhim.

Through his fog, he heard Elena say, "Ur-Lord Covenant, it is necessary to burden you with this sight. We must convince you of our need. Please forgive such a welcome to the Land. The duress of our plight leaves us little choice.

"Ur-Lord, this poor creature brought us to the decision of your summoning. For years we have known that the Despiser prepares his strength to march against the Land-that the time appointed in his prophecy grows short for us. You delivered that prophecy unto us, and the Lords of Revelstone have not been idle. From the day in which Lord Mhoram brought to Lord's Keep the Staff of Law and the Second Ward of Kevin's Lore, we have striven to meet this doom. We have multiplied the Warward, studied our defences, trained ourselves in all our skills and strengths. We have learned some of the uses of the Staff. The Loresraat has explored with all its wisdom and devotion the Second Ward. But in forty years, we have gained no clear knowledge of Lord Foul's intent. After the wresting of the Staff from Drool Rockworm, the Despiser's presence left Kiril Threndor in Mount Thunder, and soon reseated itself in the great thronehall of Ridjeck Thome, Foul's Creche, the Grey Slayer's ancient home. And since that time, our scouts have been unable to penetrate Lord Foul's demesne. Power has been at work there-power and ill-but we could learn nothing of it, though Lord Mhoram himself assayed the task. He could not breach the Despiser's forbidding might.

“But there have been dim and dark foreboding movements throughout the Land. Kresh from the east and ur-viles from Mount Thunder, griffins and other dire creatures from Sarangrave Flat, Cavewights, little-known denizens of Lifeswallower, the Great Swamp-we have heard them all wending toward the Spoiled Plains and Foul's Creche. They disappear beyond the Shattered Hills, and do not return. We need no great wisdom to teach us that the Despiser prepares his army. But still we have lacked clear knowledge. Then at last knowledge came to us. During the summer, our scouts captured this creature, this broken remnant of a Waynhim, on the western edges of Grimmerdhore Forest. It was brought here so that we might try to gain tidings from it.”

“So you tortured it to find out what it knows.” Covenant's eyes were sticky with blood, and he kept them shut, giving himself up to useless rage and mist.

“Do you believe that of us?” The High Lord sounded hurt. “No. We are not Despisers. We would not so betray the Land. We have treated the Waynhim as gently as we could without releasing it. It has told us willingly all that we would know. Now it begs us to kill it. Unbeliever, hear me. This is Lord Foul's handiwork. He possesses the Illearth Stone. This is the work of that bane.”

Through the greyness in his mind, Covenant heard the doors open again. Someone came down the stairs and whispered with Lord Mhoram. Then Mhoram said, “High Lord, hurtloam has been brought for the Unbeliever. I fear that his wound extends far beyond this simple cut. There is other ill at work in him. He must be tended without delay.”

“Yes, at once,” High Lord Elena responded promptly. “We must do all that we can to heal him.”

With a steady stride, Mhoram came toward Covenant.

At the thought of hurtloam, Covenant pushed himself away from the wall, rubbed the caked blood out of his eyes. He saw Mhoram holding a small stoneware bowl containing a light mud spangled with gold gleams that seemed to throb in the glow of the Close.

“Keep that stuff away from me,” he whispered.

Mhoram was taken aback. “This is hurtloam, ur-Lord. It is the healing soil of the Earth. You will be renewed by it.”

“I know what it does!” Covenant's voice was raw from all the shouting he had done, and it sounded spectral and empty, like the creaking of a derelict. “I've had it before. You put that stuff on my head, and before you know it the feeling comes back into my fingers and toes, and I go around ra- ” He barely caught himself. “Hurting people.”

He heard Elena. say softly, “I know,” but he disregarded her.

“That's the real lie,” he snarled at the bowl, “that stuff there. That's what makes me feel so healthy I can't stand it.” He took a long breath, then said fervidly, “I don't want it.”

Mhoram held Covenant in a gaze intense with questions. And when Covenant did not waver, the Lord asked in a low voice, a tone of amazement, “My friend, do you wish to die?”

“Use it on that poor devil over there,” Covenant replied dully. “It's got a right to it.”

Without bending the straitness of his look, Mhoram said, “We have made the attempt. You have known us, Unbeliever. You know that we could not refuse the plea of such distress. But the Waynhim is beyond all our succour. Our Healers cannot approach its inner wound. And it nearly died at the touch of hurtloam,”

Still Covenant did not relent.

Behind him, High Lord Elena continued what Mhoram had been saying. "Even the Staff of Law cannot match the power which has warped this Waynhim. Such is our plight, ur-Lord. The Illearth Stone surpasses us.

"This Waynhim has told us much. Much that was obscure is now clear. Its name was dharmakshetra, which in the Waynhim tongue means, `to brave the enemy.' Now it calls itself dukkha- 'victim.' Because its people desired knowledge of the Despiser's plotting, it went to Foul's Creche. There it was captured, and-and wronged-and then set free-as a warning to its people, I think. It has told us much.

"Unbeliever, we know that when you first delivered the Despiser's prophecy to High Lord Prothall son of Dwillian and the Council of Lords forty years ago, many things were not understood concerning the Grey Slayer's intent. Why did he warn the Lords that Drool Rockworm had found the Staff of Law under-Mount Thunder? Why did he seek to prepare us for our fate? Why did he aid Drool's quest for dark might, and then betray the Cavewight? These questions are now answered. Drool possessed the Stag, and with it unearthed the buried bane, the Illearth Stone. By reason of these powers, the Despiser was at Drool's mercy while the Cavewight lived.

"But with Lord Mhoram and High Lord Prothall, you retrieved the Staff and brought the threat of Drool Rockworm to an end. Thus the Stone fell into Lord Foul's hands. He knew that the Stone, joined with his own lore and power, is a greater strength than the Staff of Law. And he knew that we are no masters for even that little might which we possess.

"In forty years, we have not rested. We have spoken to all the people of the Land. The Loresraat has grown greatly, giving us warriors and Lorewardens and Lords to meet our need. The rhadhamaerl and lillianrill have laboured to the utmost. And all have given themselves to the study of the Two Wards, and of the Staff. Gains have been made. Trothgard, where the Lords swore their promise of healing to the Land, has flowered, and we have made there works undreamed by our forefathers. The Staff meets many needs. But the heart of our failure remains.

"For all our lore, all our knowledge of the Staff and the Earthpower, comes to us from Kevin, High Lord of the Old Lords. And he was defeated-yes, and worse than defeated. Now we face the same foe, made greatly stronger by the Illearth Stone. And we have recovered only Two of the Seven Wards in which

Kevin left his Lore. And at their core these Two are beyond us. Some weakness of wisdom or incapacity of spirit prevents our grasp of their mystery. Yet without mastery of the Two we cannot gain the rest, for Kevin, wise to the hazards of unready knowledge and power, hid his Wards each in its turn, so that the comprehension of one would lead to the discovery of the next.

"For forty years, this failure has clung to us. And now we have learned that Lord Foul, too, has not been idle. We have learned from this Waynhim. The Land's enemy has grown power and armies until the region beyond the Shattered Hills teems with warped life-myriads of poor bent creatures like dukkha, held by the power of the Stone in soul chattelry to Lord Foul. He has built for himself a force more ill than any the Land has known, more fell than any we can hope to conquer. He has gathered his three Ravers, the servants of his right hand, to command his armies. It may be that his hordes are already afoot against us.

“So it is that we have called you, ur-Lord Covenant, Unbeliever and white gold wielder. You are our hope at the last. We summoned you, though we knew it might carry a cost hard for you to bear. We have sworn our service to the Land, and could not do otherwise. Thomas Covenant! Will you not help us?”

During her speech, her voice had grown in power and eloquence until she was almost singing. Covenant could not refuse to listen. Her tone reached into him, and made vivid all his memories of the Land's beauty. He recalled the bewitching Dance of the Celebration of Spring, and the lush, heart-soothing health of the Andelainian Hills, the uneasy eldritch gleaming of Morinmoss, the stern swift Plains of Ra and the rampant Ranyhyn, the great horses. And he remembered what it was like to feel, to have lively nerves in his fingers, capable of touching grass and stone. The poignancy of it made his heart ache.

“Your hope misleads you,” he groaned into the stillness after Elena's appeal. “I don't know anything about power. It has something to do with life, and I'm as good as dead. Or what do you think life is? Life is feeling. I've lost that. I'm a leper.”

He might have started to rage again, but a new voice cut sharply through his protest. “Then why don't you throw away your ring?”

He turned, and found himself confronting the warrior who had been sitting at the end of the Lords' table. The man had come down to the bottom of the Close, where he faced Covenant with his hands on his hips. To Covenant's surprise, the man's eyes were covered with dark, wraparound sunglasses. Behind the glasses, his head moved alertly, as if he were studying everything. He seemed to possess a secret. Without the support of his eyes, the slight smile on his lips looked private and unfathomable, like an utterance in an alien tongue.

Covenant grasped the inconsistency of the sunglasses-they were oddly out of place in the Close but he was too stung by the speaker's question to stop for discrepancies. Stiffly, he answered, “It's my wedding ring.”

The man shrugged away this reply. “You talk about your wife in the past tense. You're separated-or divorced. You can't have your life both ways now. Either get rid of the ring and stick to whatever it is you seem to think is real, or get rid of her and do your duty here.”

“My duty?” The affront of the man's judgment gave Covenant the energy to object. “How do you know what my duty is?”

“My name is Hile Troy.” The man gave a slight bow. “I'm the Warmark of the Warward of Lord's Keep. My job is to figure out how to meet Foul's army.”

“Rile Troy,” added Elena slowly, almost hesitantly, “comes from your world, Unbeliever.”

What?

The High Lord's assertion seemed to snatch the ground from under Covenant. The enervation in his bones suddenly swamped him. Vertigo came over him as if he were on the edge of a cliff, and he stumbled.

Mhoram caught him as he dropped heavily to his knees.

His movement distracted the Bloodguard holding dukkha. Before they could react, the Waynhim broke away from them and sprang at Covenant, screaming with fury.

To save Covenant, Mhoram spun and blocked dukkha's charge with his staff. The next instant, the Bloodguard recaptured the Waynhim. But Covenant did not see it. When Mhoram turned away from him, he fell on his face beside the graveling pit. He felt weak, overburdened with despair, as if he were bleeding to death. For a few moments, he lost consciousness.

He awoke to the touch of cool relief on his forehead. His head was in Mhoram's lap, and the Lord was gently spreading hurtloam over his cut brow.

He could already feel the effect of the mud. A soothing caress spread from his forehead into the muscles of his face, relaxing the tension which gripped his features. Drowsiness welled up in him as the healing earth unfettered him, anodyned the restless bondage of his spirit. Though his weariness, he saw the trap of his delusion winding about him. With as much supplication as he could put into his voice, he said to Mhoram, “Get me out of here.”

The Lord seemed to understand. He nodded firmly, then got to his feet, lifting Covenant with him. Without a word to the Council, he turned his back and went up the stairs, half carrying Covenant out of the Close.

Four: “May Be Lost”

COVENANT hardly heard the shutting of the great doors behind him; he was hardly conscious of his surroundings at all. His attention was focused inward on the hurtloam's progress. It seemed to spread around his skull and down his flesh, soothing as it radiated within him. It made his skin tingle, and the sensation soon covered his face and neck. He scrutinized it as if it were a poison he had taken to end his life.

When the touch of the loam reached past the base of his throat into his chest, he stumbled, and could not recover. Bannor took his other arm. The Lord and the Bloodguard carried him on through the stone city, working generally upward through the interlocking levels of Lord's Keep. At last, they brought him to a spacious suite of living quarters. Gently, they bore him into the bedroom, laid him on the bed, and undressed him enough to make him comfortable.

Then Mhoram bent close to him and said reassuringly, “This is the power of the hurtloam. When it works upon a dire wound, it brings a deep sleep to speed healing. You will rest well now. You have done without rest too long.” He and Bannor turned to go.

But Covenant could feel the cool, tingling touch near his heart. Weakly, he called Mhoram back. He was full of dread; he could not bear to be alone. Without caring what he said-seeking only to keep Mhoram near him-he asked, “Why did that- dukkha attack me?”

Again, Lord Mhoram appeared to understand. He brought a wooden stool near the head of the bed, and seated himself there. In a quiet, steady voice, he said,

"That is a searching question, my friend. Dukkha has been tormented out of all recognition, and I can only guess at the sore impulses which drive it. But you must remember that it is a Waynhim. For many generations after the Desecration, when the new Lords began their work at Revelstone, the Waynhim served the Land-not out of allegiance to the Lords, but rather out of their desire to expiate to the Land for the dangerous works and dark lore of the ur-viles. Such a creature still lives, somewhere far within dukkha. Despite what has been done to it-even if its soul has been enslaved by the power of the Stone, so that now it serves the Despiser-it still remembers what it was, and hates what it is. That is Lord Foul's way in all things-to force his foes to become that which they most hate, and to destroy that which they, most love.

"My friend, this is not pleasant to say. But it is in my heart that dukkha attacked you because you refuse to aid the Land. The Waynhim knows the might you possess-it is of the Demondim, and in all likelihood comprehends more of the uses and power of white gold than any Lord. Now it is in pain too great to allow it to understand you. The last remnant of itself saw dimly that you-that you refuse. For a moment, it became its former self enough to act.

“Ah, ur-Lord. You have said that the Land is a dream for you-and that you fear to be made mad. But madness is not the only danger in dreams. There is also the danger that something may be lost which can never be regained.”

Covenant sighed. The Lord had given him an explanation he could grasp. But when Mhoram's steady voice stopped, he felt how much he needed it-how close he was to the brink of some precipice which appalled him. He reached a hand outward, into the void around him, and felt his fingers clasped firmly in Mhoram's. He tried once more to make himself understood.

“She was my wife,” he breathed. “She needed me She-she'll never forgive me for doing this to her.”

He was so exhausted that he could no longer see Mhoram's face. But as he ran out of consciousness, he felt the Lord's unfaltering hold on his hand. Mhoram's care comforted him, and he slept.

Then he hung under a broad sky of dreams, measurable only by the strides of stars. Out of the dim heavens, a succession of dark shapes seemed to hover and strike. Like carrion, he was helpless to fend them off. But always a hand gripped his and consoled him. It anchored him until he returned to consciousness.

Without opening his eyes, he lay still and probed himself tentatively, as if he were testing buboes. He was enfolded from his chest down in soft clean sheets. And he could feel the fabric with his toes. The cold numbness of dead nerves was gone from them, warmed away by a healing glow which reached into the marrow of his bones.

The change in his fingers was even 'more obvious. His right fist was knotted in the sheets. When he moved his fingers, he could feel the texture of the cloth with their tips. The grip on his left hand was so hard that he could feel the pulse in his knuckles.

But nerves do not regenerate-cannot—

Damnation! he groaned. The sensation of touch prodded his heart like fear. Involuntarily, he whispered, “No. No.” But his tone was full of futility.

“Ah, my friend,” Mhoram sighed, “your dreams have been full of such refusals. But I do not understand them. I hear in your breathing that you have resisted your own healing. And the outcome is obscure to me. I cannot tell whether your denials have brought you to good or ill.”

Covenant looked up into Mhoram's sympathetic face. The Lord still sat beside the bed; his iron-shod staff leaned against the wall within easy reach of his hand. But now there were no torches in the room. Sunlight poured through a large oriel beside the bed.

Mhoram's gaze made Covenant acutely conscious of their clasped hands. Carefully, he extricated his fingers. Then he propped himself up on his elbows, and asked how long he had been asleep. His rest after the shouting he had done in the Close made his voice rattle harshly in his throat.

“It is now early afternoon,” Mhoram replied. “The summoning was performed in the evening yesterday.”

“Have you been here-all that time?”

The Lord smiled. “No. During the night-How shall I say it? I was called away. High Lord Elena sat with you in my absence.” After a moment, he added, “She will speak with you this evening, if you are willing.” Covenant did not respond. The mention of Elena reawakened his outrage and fear at the act which had compelled him into the Land. He thought of the summoning as her doing; it was her voice which had snatched him away from Joan. Joan! he wailed. To a cover his distress, he climbed out of bed, gathered up his clothes, and went in search of a place to wash himself.

In the next room, he found a stone basin and tub j connected to a series of balanced stone valves which allowed him to run water where he wanted it. He filled, the basin. When he put his hands into the water, its sharp chill thrilled the new vitality of his nerves. Angrily, he thrust his head down into the water, and did not raise it until the cold began to make the bones of his skull hurt. Then he went and stood dripping over a warm pot of graveling near the tub.

While the glow of the fire-stones dried him, he silenced the aching of his heart. He was a leper, and knew down to the core of his skeleton the vital importance of recognizing facts. Joan was lost to him; that was a fact, like his disease, beyond any possibility of change. She would become angry when he did not speak to her, and would hang up, thinking that he had deliberately rebuffed her appeal, her proud, brave effort to bridge the loneliness between them. And he could do nothing about it. He was trapped in his delusion again. If he meant to survive, he could not afford the luxury of grieving over lost hopes. He was a leper; all his hopes were false. They were his enemies. They could kill him by blinding him to the lethal power of facts.

It was a fact that the Land was a delusion. It was a fact that he was trapped, caught in the web of his own weakness. His leprosy was a fact. He insisted on these things while he protested weakly to himself, Not I can't stand it! But the cold water dried from his skin, and was replaced by the kind, earthy warmth of the graveling. Sensations ran excitedly up his limbs from his fingers and toes. With a wild, stubborn look as if he were battering his head against a wall, he gave himself a VSE.

Then he located a mirror of polished stone, and used it to inspect his forehead. No mark was there the hurtloam had erased his injury completely.

He called out, “Mhoram!” But his voice had an unwanted beseeching tone. To counter it, he began shoving himself into his clothes. When the Lord appeared in the doorway, Covenant did not meet his eyes. He pulled on his T-shirt and jeans, laced up his boots, then moved away to the third room of his suite.

There he found a door opening onto a balcony. With Mhoram behind him, he stepped out into the open air. At once, perspectives opened, and a spasm of vertigo clutched at him. The balcony hung halfway up the southern face of Revelstone-more than a thousand feet straight above the foothills which rested against the base of the mountain. The depth of the fall seemed to gape unexpectedly under his feet. His fear of heights whirred in his ears; he flung his arms around the stone railing, clung to it, clutched it to his chest.

In a moment, the worst of the spasm passed. Mhoram asked him what was wrong, but he did not explain. Breathing deeply, he pushed himself erect, and stood with his back pressed against the reassuring stone of the Keep. From there, he took in the view.

As he remembered it, Revelstone filled a long wedge of the mountains which stood immediately to the west. It had been carved out of the mountain promontory by the Giants many centuries ago, in the time of Old Lord Damelon Giantfriend. Above the Keep was a plateau which went beyond it west and north, past Furl Falls for a distance of a league or two before rising up into the rugged Westron Mountains. The Falls were too far away to be seen, but in the distance the White River angled away south and slightly east from its head in the pool of Furl Falls.

Beyond the river to the southwest, Covenant made out the open plains and hills that led toward Trothgard. In that direction, he saw no sign of cultivation or habitation; but eastward from him were ripe fields, stands of trees, streams, villages-all glowing under the sun as if they were smiling with health. Looking over them, he sensed that the season was early autumn. The sun stood in the southern sky, the air was not as warm as it seemed, and the breeze which blew gently up the face of Revelstone was flavoured with the loamy lushness of fall.

The Land's season-so different from the spring weather from which he had been wrenched away gave him a renewed sense of discrepancy, of stark and impossible translation. It reminded him of many things, but he forced himself to begin with the previous evening. Stiffly, he said, “Has it occurred to you that Foul probably let that poor Waynhim go just to get you to call me here?”

“Of course,” Mhoram replied. “That is the Despiser's way. He intends you to be the means of our destruction.”

“Then why did you do it? Hellfire! You know how I feel about this-I told you often enough. I don't want-I'm not going to be responsible for what happens to you.”

Lord Mhoram shrugged. “That is the paradox of white gold. Hope and despair run together for us. How could we refuse the risk? Without every aid which we can find or make for ourselves, we cannot meet Lord Foul's might. We trust that at the last you will not turn your back on the Land.”

“You've had forty years to think about it. You ought to know by now how little I deserve or even want your trust.”

"Perhaps. Warmark Hile Troy argues much that way-though there is much about you that he does not know. He feels that faith in one who is so unwilling is folly. And he is not convinced that we will lose this war. He makes bold plans. But I have heard the Despiser laughing. For better or worse, I am seer and oracle for this Council. I hear-I approve the High Lord's decision of summoning. For many reasons.

“Thomas Covenant, we have not spent our years in seclusion here, dreaming sweet dreams of peace while Lord Foul grows and moves against us. From your last moment in the Land to this day, we have striven to prepare our defence. Scouts and Lords have ridden the Land from end to end, drawing the people together, warning them, building what lore we have. I have braved the Shattered Hills, and fought on the mange of Hotash Slay-but of that I do not speak. I brought back knowledge of the Ravers. Dukkha alone did not move us to summon you.”

Even in the direct beam of the sun, the word Ravers gave Covenant a chill he could not suppress. Remembering the other Waynhim he had seen, dead, with an iron spike through its heart-killed by a Raver-he asked, “What about them? What did you learn?”

“Much or little,” Mhoram sighed, "according to the uses of the knowledge. The importance of this lore cannot be mistaken-and yet its value eludes us.

"While you were last in the Land, we learned that the Ravers were still aboard-that like their master they had not been undone by the Ritual of Desecration, which Kevin Landwaster wreaked in his despair. Some knowledge of these beings had come to us through the old legends, the Lore of the First Ward, and the teachings of the Giants. We knew that they were named Sheol, Jehannum, and Herem, and that they lived without bodies, feeding upon the souls of others. When the Despiser was powerful enough to give them strength, they enslaved creatures or people by entering into their bodies, subduing their wills, and using the captured flesh to enact their master's purposes. Disguised in forms not their own, they were well hidden, and so could gain trust among their foes. By that means, many brave defenders of the Land were lured to their deaths in the age of the Old Lords.

“But I have learned more. There near Foul's Creche, I was beaten-badly overmastered. I fled through the Shattered Hills with only the staff of Variol my father between me and death, and could not prevent my foe from laying hands upon me. I had thought that I was in battle with a supreme loremaster of the ur-viles. But I learned-I learned otherwise.”

Lord Mhoram stared unseeing into the depths of the sky, remembering with grim, concentrated eyes what had happened to him. After a moment, he continued: “It was a Raver I fought-a Raver in the flesh of an ur-vile. The touch of its hand taught me much. In the oldest time-beyond the reach of our most hoary legends, even before the dim time of the coming of men to the Land, and the cruel felling of the One Forest-the Colossus of the Fall had both power and purpose. It stood on Landsdrop like a forbidding fist over the Lower Land, and with the might of the Forest denied a dark evil from the Upper Land.”

Abruptly, he broke into a slow song like a lament, a quiet declining hymn which told the story of the Colossus as the Lords had formerly known it, before the son of Variol had gained his new knowledge. In restrained sorrow over lost glory, the song described the Colossus of the Fall-the huge stone monolith, upraised in the semblance of a fist, which stood beside the waterfall where the River Landrider of the Plains of Ra became the Ruinwash of the Spoiled Plains.

Since a time that was ancient before Berek Lord-Fatherer lost half his hand, the Colossus had stood in lone sombre guard above the cliff of Landsdrop; and the oldest hinted legends of the Old Lords told of a ` time, during the ages of the One Forest's dominion in the Land, when that towering fist had held the power to forbid the shadow of Despite-held it, and did not wane until the felling of the Forest by that unsuspected enemy, man, had cut too deeply to be halted. But then, outraged and weakened by the slaughter of the trees, the Colossus had unclasped its interdict, and let the shadow free. From that time, from the moment of that offended capitulation, the Earth had slowly lost the power or the will or the chance to defend itself. So the burden of resisting the Despiser had fallen to a race which had brought the shadow upon itself, and the Earth lay under the outcome.

“But it was not Despite which the Colossus resisted,” Mhoram resumed when his song was done. "Despite was the bane of men. It came with them into the Land from the cold anguish of the north, and from the hungry kingdom of the south. No, the Colossus of the Fall forbade another foe-three tree-and soil-hating brothers who were old in the Spoiled Plains before Lord Foul first cast his shadow there. They were triplets, the spawn of one birth from the womb of their long forgotten mother, and their names were samadhi, moksha, and turiya. They hated the Earth and all its growing things, just as Lord Foul hates all life and love. When the Colossus eased its interdict, they came to the Upper Land, and in their lust for ravage and dismay fell swiftly under the mastery of the Despiser. From that time, they have been his highest servants. They have performed treachery for him when he could not show his hand, and have fought for him when he would not lead his armies.

“It was samadhi, now named Sheol, who mastered the heart of Berek's liege-Sheol who slaughtered the champions of the Land, and drove Berek, half-unhanded and alone, to his extremity on the slopes of Mount Thunder. It was turiya and moksha, Herem and Jehannum, who lured the powerful and austere Demondim to their breeding dens, and to the spawning of the ur-viles. Now the three are united with Lord Foul again-united, and clamouring for the decimation of the Land. But alas-alas for my ignorance and weakness. I cannot foresee what they will do. I can hear their voices, loud with lust for the ripping of trees and the scorching of soil, but their intent eludes me. The Land is in such peril because its servants are weak.”

The rough eloquence of Mhoram's tone carried Covenant along, and under its spell the brilliant sunlight seemed to darken in his eyes. Grimly, unwillingly, he caught a sense of the looming and cruel ill which crept up behind the Land's spirit, defying its inadequate defenders. And when he looked at himself, he saw nothing but omens of futility. Other people who s had protested their weakness to him had suffered terribly at the hands of his own irreducible and immedicable impotence. Harshly-more harshly than he intended-he asked, “Why?”

Mhoram turned away from his private visions, and cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Covenant.

“Why are you weak?”

The Lord met this with a wry smile. “Ah, my friend — I had forgotten that you ask such questions. You lead me into long speeches. I think that if I could reply to you briefly, I would not need you so.” But Covenant did not relent, and after a pause Mhoram said, “Well, I cannot refuse to answer. But come-there is food waiting. Let us eat. Then I will make what answer I can.”

Covenant refused. Despite his hunger, he was unwilling to make any more concessions to the Land until he knew better where he stood.

Mhoram considered him for a moment, then replied in a measured tone, “If what you say is true-if Land and Earth and all are nothing more than a dream, a threat of madness for you-then still you must eat. Hunger is hunger, and need is need. How else-?”

“No.” Covenant dismissed the idea heavily.

At that, the gold flecks in Mhoram's eyes flared, as if they reflected the passion of the sun, and he said levelly, “Then answer that question yourself. Answer it, and save us. If we are helpless and unfriended, it is your doing. Only you can penetrate the mysteries which surround us.”

“No,” Covenant repeated. He recognized what Mhoram was saying, and refused to tolerate it. No, he responded to the heat of Mhoram's look. That's too much like blaming me for being a leper. It's not my fault. “You go too far.”

“Ur-Lord,” Mhoram replied, articulating each word distinctly, “there is peril upon the Land. Distance will not restrain me.”

"That isn't what I meant. I meant you're taking what I said too far. I'm not the-the shaper. I'm not in control. I'm just another victim. All I know is what you tell me.

“What I want to know is why you keep trying to make me responsible. What makes you any weaker than I am? You've got the Staff of Law. You've got the rhadhamaerl and lillianrill. What makes you so bloody weak?”

The heat slowly faded from the Lord's gaze. Folding his arms so that his staff was clasped across his chest, he smiled crookedly. "Your question grows with each asking. If I require you to ask again, I fear that nothing-less than a Giant's tale will suffice for answer. Forgive me, my friend. I know that our peril cannot be laid on your head. Dream or no-there is no difference for us. We must serve the Land.

"Now, I must first remind you that the rhadhamaerl and lillianrill are another question, separate from the weakness of the Lords. The stone-lore of the rhadhamaerl, and the wood-lore of the lillianrill, have been preserved from past ages by the people of Stonedown and Woodhelven. In their exile after the Ritual of Desecration, the people of the Land lost much of the richness of their lives. They were sorely bereft, and could cling only to that lore which enabled them to endure. Thus, when they returned to the Land, they brought with them those whose work in exile was to preserve and use the lore-Gravelingases of the rhadhamaerl, and Hirebrands of the lillianrill. It is the work of Hirebrand and Gravelingas to make the lives of the villages bounteous-warm in winter and plentiful in summer, true to the song of the Land.

'The Lore of High Lord Kevin Landwaster is another matter. That knowledge is the concern of the Loresraat and the Lords.

“The age of the Old Lords, before Lord Foul broke into open war with Kevin son of Loric, was among the bravest and gladdest and strongest of all the times of the Land. Kevin's Lore was mighty with Earthpower, and pure with Landservice. Health and gaiety flowered in the Land, and the bright Earth jewel of Andelain bedizened the Land's heart with precious woods and stones. That was a time ”Yet it came to an end. Despair darkened Kevin, and in the Ritual of Desecration he destroyed that which he loved, intending to destroy the Despiser as well. But before the end, he was touched with prophecy or foresight, and found means to save much of power and beauty. He warned the Giants and the Ranyhyn, so that they might flee. He ordered the Bloodguard into safety. And he left his Lore for later ages-hid it in Seven Wards so that it would not fall into wrong or unready hands. The First Ward he gave to the Giants, and when the exile was ended they gave it to the first of the new Lords, the forebearers of this Council. In turn, these Lords conceived the Oath of Peace and carried it to all the people of the Land-an Oath to guard against Kevin's destroying passion. And these Lords, our forebearers, swore themselves and their followers in fealty and service to the Land and the Earthpower.

“Now, my friend, you know we have found the Second Ward. The Two contain much knowledge and much power, and when they are mastered they will lead us to the Third Ward. In this way, mastery will guide us until all Kevin's Lore is ours. But we fail we fail to penetrate. How can I say it? We translate the speech of the Old Lords. We learn the skills and rites and songs of the Lore. We study Peace, and devote ourselves to the life of the Land. And yet something lacks. In some way, we miscomprehend-we do not suffice. Only a part of the power of this knowledge answers to our touch. We can learn nothing of the other Wards-and little of the Seven Words which evoke the Earthpower. Something-ur-Lord, it is something in us which fails. I feel it in my heart. We lack. We have not the stature of mastery.”

The Lord fell silent, musing with his head down and his cheek pressed against his staff. Covenant watched him for a time. The warmth of the sun and the cool breeze seemed to underscore Mhoram's stern self judgment. Revelstone itself dwarfed the people who inhabited it.

Yet the Lord's influence or example strengthened Covenant. At last, he found the courage to ask his most important question. “Then why am I here? Why did he let you summon me? Doesn't he want the white gold?”

Without raising his head, Mhoram said, “Lord Foul is not yet ready to defeat you. The wild magic still surpasses him. Instead, he strives to make you destroy yourself. I have seen it.”

“Seen it?” Covenant echoed softly, painfully,

"In grey visions I have caught glimpses of the Despiser's heart. In this matter, I speak from sure comprehension. Even now, Lord Foul believes that his might is not equal to the wild magic. He is not yet ready to battle you.

"Remember that forty years ago Drool Rockworm held both Staff and Stone. Desiring still more power desiring all power-he exerted himself against you in ways which the Despiser would not have chosen ways which were wasteful or foolish. Drool was mad. And Lord Foul had no wish to teach him wisdom.

"Matters are otherwise now. Lord Foul wastes no power, takes no risks which do not gain his ends. He seeks indirectly to make you do his bidding. If it comes to the last, and you are still unmastered, he will fight you-but only when he is sure of victory. Until that time, he will strive to bend your will so that you will choose to strike against the Land-or to withhold your hand from our defence, so that he will be free to destroy us.

“But he will make no open move against you now. He fears the wild magic. White gold is not bound by the law of Time, and he must prevent its use until he can know that it will not be used against him.”

Covenant heard the truth of Mhoram's words. The Despiser had told him much the same thing, high on Kevin's Watch, when he had first appeared in the Land. He shivered under the livid memory of Lord Foul's contempt-shivered and felt cold, as if behind the clean sunlight over Revelstone blew the dank mist of Despite, dampening his soul with the smell of attar, filling his ears on a level just beyond hearing with the rumble of an avalanche. Looking into Mhoram's eyes, he knew that he had to speak truly as well, reply as honestly as he could.

“I don't have any choice.” Even this made him want to duck his head in shame, but he forced himself to hold the Lord's gaze. “I'll have to do it that way. Even if that's not the one good answer-even if madness is not the only danger in dreams. Even if I believed in this wild magic. I haven't got one idea how to use it.”

With an effort, Mhoram smiled gently. But the sombreness of his glance overshadowed his smile. He met Covenant's eyes unwaveringly, and when he spoke, his voice was sad. “Ah, my friend, what will you do?”

The uncritical softness of the question caught Covenant by the throat. He was not prepared for such sympathy. With difficulty, he answered, “I'll survive.”

Mhoram nodded slowly, and a moment later he turned away, back toward the room. As he reached the door, he said, “I am late. The Council waits for me. I must go.”

But before the Lord could leave, Covenant called after him, “Why aren't you the High Lord?” He was trying to find some way to thank Mhoram. “Don't they appreciate you around here?”

Over his shoulder, Mhoram replied simply, “My time has not yet come.” Then he left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

Five: Dukkha

COVENANT turned back to the southward view from Revelstone. He had many things to think about, and no easy way to grasp them. But already his senses seemed to be swinging into consonance with the Land. He could smell the crops in the fields east of him they were nearly ready for harvesting-and see the inner ripeness of the distant trees. He found autumn in the way the sunlight stroked his face. Such sensations accented the excitement in his veins, but they confused his efforts to deal clearly with his situation. No leper, he thought painfully, no leper should be asked to live in such a healthy world.

Yet he could not deny it; he was moved by Mhoram's account of the dilemmas of the Lords. He was moved by the Land, and by the people who served it though they made him look so small to himself. Sourly, he left the balcony, and scanned the tray of food which had been set for him on a stone table in the centre of his sitting room. The soup and stew still steamed, reminding him how hungry he was.

No. He could not afford to make any more concessions. Hunger was like nerve-health- illusion, deception, dream. He could not A knock at the door interrupted him. For a moment, he stood still, irresolute. He did not want to talk to anyone until he had had more time to think. But at the same time he did not want to be alone. The threat of madness was always at its worst when he was alone.

Keep moving, don't look back, he muttered bitterly to himself, echoing a formula which had served him ambiguously at best.

He went to open the door.

Standing in the outer hallway was Hile Troy.

He was dressed as Covenant had seen him before, with his sunglasses firmly in place; and again the slight smile on his lips looked vaguely mysterious and apologetic. A sharp pang of anxiety joined the tingling of Covenant's blood. He had been trying not to think about this man.

“Come on,” Troy said. His tone was full of the power of command. “The Lords are doing something you ought to see.”

Covenant shrugged to disguise a tremor in his shoulders. Troy was an adversary-Covenant could sense it. But he had made his decision when he had opened the door. Defiantly, he strode out into the hall.

In the hallway, he found Bannor standing watch by his door.

Hile Troy started away with a swift, confident stride, but Covenant turned toward the Bloodguard. Bannor met his look with a nod; for a moment they held each other's eyes. Bannor's flat, brown, unreadable face had not changed a whit, not aged a day that Covenant could discern. As he stood relaxed and ready, the Bloodguard radiated a physical solidity, a palpable competence, which intimidated or belittled Covenant; and yet Covenant sensed something extreme and sad in Bannor's timeless impenetrability.

The Bloodguard were said to be two thousand years old. They were clenched into immutability by a strait and consuming Vow of service to the Lords, while all the people they had ever known-including the long-lived Giants, and High Lord Kevin, who had inspired them to their Vow-fell into dust.

Looking now at Bannor, with his alien countenance and his bare feet and his short brown tunic, Covenant received a sudden intuitive impression, as if a previous subliminal perception had crystallized. How many times had Bannor saved his life? For an instant, he could not remember. He felt unexpectedly sure that the Bloodguard could tell him what he needed to know, that from the extravagance of his two-thousand-year perspective, bereft by the unforeseen power of his Vow of home and sleep and death, of everyone he had ever loved, he had gained the knowledge Covenant needed.

“Bannor-” he began.

“Ur-Lord.” The Bloodguard's voice was as passionless as time.

But Covenant did not know how to ask; he could not put his need into words which would not sound like an attack on the Bloodguard's impossible fidelity. Instead, he murmured, “So we're back to this.”

“The High Lord has chosen me to keep watch over you.”

“Come on,” called Troy peremptorily. “You should see this.”

Covenant disregarded him for a moment longer. To

Bannor, he said, “I hope-I hope it works out better than the last time.” Then he turned and moved down the hall after Troy. He knew that Bannor came behind him, though the Bloodguard walked without a sound.

Impatiently, Hile Troy guided Covenant inward through the levels of the Keep. They passed briskly across high vaulted halls, along connecting corridors, and down stairs until they reached a place that Covenant recognized: the long circular passage around the sacred enclosure, where the inhabitants of Revelstone worshipped.

He followed Troy in through one of the many doors onto a balcony which hung in the great cavern. The cavity was cylindrical in shape, with seven balconies cut into the walls, a flat floor with a dais on one side, and a domed ceiling too high above the balconies to be seen clearly. The enclosure was dim; the only illumination came from four large lillianrill torches set around the dais. Bannor closed the door, shutting out the light from the outer hallway; and in the gloom Covenant clung to the railing for security against the depth of the cavity. He was several hundred feet above the dais.

The balconies were nearly empty. Clearly, whatever ceremony was about to be enacted was not intended for the general population of Revelstone.

The nine Lords were already on the dais. They stood in a circle facing each other. With their backs to the torches, their faces were shadowed, and Covenant could not make out their features.

“This is your doing,” said Troy in an intent whisper. “They have tried everything else. You shamed them into this.”

Two Bloodguard bearing some figure between them moved toward the dais. With a start, Covenant identified the injured Waynhim. Dukkha was struggling feebly, but it could not prevent the Bloodguard from placing it within the circle of the Lords.

“They're going to try to break the hold of the Illearth Stone,” Troy continued. “This is risky. If they fail, it could spread to one of them. They'll be too exhausted to fight it.”

Clutching the railing with both hands, Covenant watched the scene below him. The two Bloodguard left dukkha cowering in the circle, and retreated to the wall of the enclosure. For a long moment, the Lords stood in silent concentration, preparing themselves. Then they lifted their heads, planted their staffs firmly before them on the stone, and began to sing. Their hymn echoed in the enclosure as if the domed gloom itself were resonating. They appeared small in the immense chamber, but their song stood up boldly, filling the air with authority and purpose.

As the echoes died, Troy whispered in Covenant's ear, “If something goes wrong here, you're going to pay for it.”

I know, Covenant said like a prophet. I'm going to have to pay for everything.

When silence at last refilled the enclosure, High Lord Elena said in a clear voice, ”Dharmakshetra, Waynhim, if you can hear us through the wrong which has been done to you, listen. We seek to drive the power of the Illearth Stone from you. Please aid us. Resist the Despiser. Dukkha, head Remember health and hope, and resist this ill!"

Together, the Lords raised their staffs.

Troy's fingers reached out of the darkness and gripped Covenant's arm above the elbow.

Crying in one voice, “Melenkurion abatha!” the Lords struck their staffs on the stone. The metal rang through the sacred enclosure like a clashing of shields, and blue Lords-fire burst from the upheld end of each staff. The incandescent flames burned hotly, outshining the light of the torches. But the Staff of Law dazzled them all, flaring like a tongue of lightning. And the fire of the staffs made a low sound like the rush of distant storm winds.

Slowly, one of the lesser staffs bent toward the head of dukkha. It descended, then stopped with its flame well above the Waynhim's head, as if at that point the fire met resistance. When the wielding Lord pressed down, the air between dukkha's skull and the staff ignited; the whole space burned. But the fire there was as green as cold emerald, and it devoured the Lords' blue power.

Troy's fingers dug like claws into the flesh of Covenant's arm. But Covenant hardly felt them.

To meet the green flame, the Lords broke into s stern antiphonal chant, using words that Covenant could not understand. Their voices pounded against the green, and the rushing wind of their power mounted. Yet through it could be heard the voice of dukkha Waynhim, gibbering.

One by one, the Lords added their fires to the struggle over dukkha's head, until only the Staff of Law remained uncommitted. As each new power touched the green, a sound of hunger and the crushing of bones multiplied in the sir, and the baleful emerald fire blazed up more mightily, expanding like an inferno of cruel ice to combat the Lords' strength.

Abruptly, the lillianrill torches went out, as if extinguished by a high wind.

Troy's fingers tightened.

Then High Lord Elena's voice sprang out over the song of the Lords. “Melenkurion abatha! Duroc minas mill khabaal!” With a sweeping stroke, she swung the Staff of Law into the fray.

For an instant, the force of her attack drove the conflicting fires together. Blue and green became one, and raged up over the circle of the Lords, ravening and roaring like a holocaust. But the next moment, dukkha shrieked as if its soul were torn in two. The towering flame ruptured like a thunderhead.

The detonation blew out all the fire in the enclosure. At once a darkness as complete as a grave closed over the Lords.

Then two small torches appeared in the hands of the Bloodguard. The dim light showed dukkha lying on the stone beside two prostrate Lords. The others stood in their places, leaning on their staffs as if stunned by their exertion.

Seeing the fallen Lords, Troy drew a breath that hissed fiercely through his teeth. His fingers seemed to be trying to bare Covenant's bone. But Covenant bore the pain, watched the Lords.

Swiftly, the Bloodguard refit the four torches around the dais. At the touch of the warm light, one of the Lords Covenant recognized Mhoram-shook off his numbness, and went to kneel beside his collapsed comrades. He examined them for a moment with his hands, using his sense of touch to explore the damage done to them; then he turned and bent over dukkha. Around him vibrated a silence of hushed fear.

At last he climbed to his feet, bracing himself with his staff. He spoke in a low voice, but his words carried throughout the enclosure. “The Lords Trevor and Amatin are well. They have only lost consciousness.” Then he bowed his head, and sighed. “The Waynhim dukkha is dead. May its soul at last find peace.”

“And forgive us,” High Lord Elena responded, “for we have failed.”

Breathing in his deep relief, Troy released Covenant. Covenant felt sudden stabs of pain in his upper arm. The throbbing made him aware that his own hands hurt. The intensity of his hold on the railing had cramped them until they felt crippled. The pain was sharp, but he welcomed it. He could see death in the broken limbs of the Waynhim. The bruises on his arms, the aching stiffness in his palms, were proof of life.

Dully, he said, “They killed it.”

“What did you want them to do?” Troy retorted with ready indignation. “Keep it captive, alive and in torment? Let it go, and disclaim responsibility? Kill it in cold blood?”

“No.”

“Then this is your only choice. This was the only thing left to try.”

“No. You don't understand.” Covenant tried to find the words to explain, but he could go no further. “You don't understand what Foul is doing to them.” He pulled his cramped fingers away from the railing, and left the enclosure.

When he regained his rooms, he was still shaken.

He did not think to close the door behind him, and the Warmark strode after him into the suite without bothering to ask admittance. But Covenant paid no attention to his visitor. He went straight to the tray of food, picked up the flask which stood beside the still steaming bowls, and drank deeply, as if he were trying to quench the heat of his blood. The springwine in the flask had a light, fresh, beery taste; it washed into him, clearing the dust from his internal passages. He emptied the flask, then remained still for a moment with his eyes shut, experiencing the sensation of the draft. When its clear light had eased some of the constriction in his chest, he seated himself at the table and began to eat.

“That can wait,” Troy said gruffly. “I've got to talk to you.”

“So talk,” Covenant said around a mouthful of stew. In spite of his visitor's insistent impatience, he kept on eating. He ate rapidly, acting on his decision before doubt could make him regret it.

Troy paced the room stiffly for a moment, then brought himself to take a seat opposite Covenant. He sat as he stood with unbending uprightness. His gleaming, impenetrable, black sunglasses emphasized the tightness of the muscles in his cheeks and forehead. Carefully, he said, “You're determined to make this hard, aren't you? You're determined to make it hard for everyone.”

Covenant shrugged. As the springwine unfurled within him, he began to recover from what he had seen in the sacred enclosure. At the same time, he remembered his distrust of Troy. He ate with increasing wariness, watched the Warmark from under his eyebrows.

“Well, I'm trying to understand,” Troy went on in a constrained tone. “God knows I've got a better chance than anyone else here.”

Covenant put down the wooden fork and looked squarely at Troy.

“The same thing happened to us both.” To the obvious disbelief in Covenant's face, he responded, "Oh, it's all clear enough. A white gold wedding ring. Boots, jeans, and a T-shirt. You were talking on the phone with your wife. And the time before that-have I got this right? — you were hit by a car of some kind."

“A police car,” Covenant murmured, staring at the Warmark.

“You see? I can recognize every detail. And you could do the same for my story. We both came here from the same place, the same world, Covenant. The real world.”

No, Covenant breathed thickly. None of this is happening.

“I've even heard of you,” Troy went on as if this argument would be incontrovertible. “I've read-your book was read to me. It made an impression on me.”

Covenant snorted. But he was disturbed. He had burned that book too late; it continued to haunt him.

"No, hold on. Your damn book was a best-seller.

Hundreds of thousands of people read it. It was made ` into a movie. Just because I know about it doesn't mean I'm a figment of your imagination. In fact, my presence here is proof that you are not going crazy.: Two independent minds perceiving the same phenomenon."

He said this with confident plausibility, but Covenant was not swayed. “Proof?” he muttered. “I would be amused to hear what else you call proof.”

“Do you want to hear how I came here?”

“No!” Covenant was suddenly vehement. “I want to hear why you don't want to go back.”

For a moment, Troy sat still, facing Covenant with his sunglasses. Then he snapped to his feet, and started to pace again. Swinging tightly around on his heel at one end of the room, he said, “Two reasons. First, I like it here. I'm useful to something worth being useful to. The issues at stake in this war are the only ones I've ever seen worth fighting for. The life of the Land is beautiful. It deserves preservation. For once, I can do some good. Instead of spending my time on troop deployment, first-and second-strike capabilities, super-ready status, demoralization parameters, nuclear induction of lethal genetic events,” he recited bitterly, "I can help defend against a genuine evil. The world we came from-the `real' world hasn't got such clear colours, no blue and black and green and red, 'ebon ichor incarnadine viridian.' Grey is the colour of `reality.'

“Actually”- he dropped back into his chair, and his voice took on a more conversational tone-“I didn't even know what grey was until I came here. That's my second reason.”

He reached up with both hands and removed his sunglasses.

“I'm blind.”

His sockets were empty, orbless, lacking even lids and lashes. Blank skin grew in the holes where his eyes should have been.

“I was born this way,” the Warmark said, as if he could see Covenant's astonishment. "A genetic freak. But my parents saw fit to keep me alive, and by the time they died I had learned various ways to function on my own. I got myself into special schools, got special help. It took a few extra years because I had to have most things read to me, but eventually I got through high school and college. After which my only real skill was keeping track of spatial relationships in my head. For instance, I could play chess without a board. And if someone described a room to me, I could walk through it without bumping into anything. Basically I was good at that because it was how I kept myself alive.

"So I finally got a job in a think tank with the Department of Defence. They wanted people who could understand situations without being able to see them — people who could use language to deal with physical facts. I was the expert on war games, computer hypotheticals, that sort of thing. All I needed was accurate verbal information on topography, troop strength, hardware and deployment, support capabilities-then leave the game to me. I always won. So what did it all amount to? Nothing. I was the freak of the group, that's all.

"I took care of myself as well as I could. But for a place to live, I was pretty much at the mercy of what

I could get. So I lived in this apartment house on the ninth floor, and one night it burned down. That is, I assume it burned down. The fire company still hadn't come when my apartment caught. There was nothing

I could do. The fire backed me to the wall, and finally I climbed out the window. I hung from the windowsill while the heat blistered my knuckles. I was determined not to let go because I had a very clear idea of how far above the ground nine floors is. Made no difference. After a while, my fingers couldn't hold on anymore.

"The next thing I knew, I was lying on something that felt like grass. There was a cool breeze--but with enough warmth behind it to make me think it must be daylight. The only thing wrong was a smell of burned flesh. I assumed it was me. Then I heard voices- ` urgent, people hurrying to try to prevent something. They found me.

"Later, I learned what had happened. A young student at the Loresraat had an inspiration about a piece of the Second Ward he was working on. All this was about five years ago. He thought he had figured out how to get help for the Land-how to summon you, actually. He wanted to try it, but the Lorewardens' refused to let him. Too dangerous. They took his idea to study, and sent to Revelstone for a Lord to help them decide how to test his theory.

"Well, he didn't want to wait. He left the Loresraat and climbed a few miles up into the western hills of Trothgard until he thought he was far enough away to work in peace. Then he started the ritual. Somehow, the Lorewardens felt the power he was using, and went after him. But they were too late. He succeeded-in a manner of speaking. When he was done, I was lying there on the grass, and he-He had burned himself to death. Some of the Lorewardens think he caught the fire that should have killed me. As they said, it was too dangerous.

“The Lorewardens took me in, cared for me, put hurtloam on my hands-even on my eyesockets. Before long, I began having visions. Colours and shapes started to jump at me out of the-out of whatever it was I was used to. This round, white-orange circle passed over me every day-but I didn't know what it was. I didn't even know it was `round.' I had no visual concept of `round.' But the visions kept getting stronger. Finally, Elena-she was the Lord who came down from Revelstone, only she wasn't High Lord then-she told me that I was learning to see with my mind-as if my brain were actually starting to see through my forehead. I didn't believe it, but she showed me. She demonstrated how my sense of spatial relationships fitted what I was `seeing,' and how my sense of touch matched the shapes around me.”

He paused for a moment, remembering. Then he said strongly, "I'll tell you-I never think about going back. How can I? I'm here, and I can see. The Land's given me a gift I could never repay in a dozen lifetimes. I've got too big a debt-The first time I stood on the top of Revelwood and looked over the valley where the Rill and Llurallin rivers come together the first time in my life that I had ever seen-the first time, Covenant, I had ever even known that such sights existed-I swore I was going to win this war for the Land. Lacking missiles and bombs, there are other ways to fight. It took me a little while to convince the Lords-just long enough for me to outsmart all the best tacticians in the Wayward. Then they made me their Warmark. Now I'm just about ready. A difficult strategic problem-we're too far from the best line of defence, Landsdrop. And I haven't heard from my scouts. I don't know which way Foul is going to try to get at us. But I can beat him in a fair fight. I'm looking forward to it.

“Go back? No. Never.”

Hile Troy had been speaking in a level tone, as if he did not want to expose his emotions to his auditor. But Covenant could hear an undercurrent of enthusiasm in the words-a timbre of passion too unruly to be concealed.

Now Troy leaned toward Covenant intently, and his ready indignation came back into his voice. “In fact, I can't understand you at all. Do you know that this whole place”-he indicated Revelstone with a brusque gesture-"revolves around you? White gold. The wild magic that destroys peace. The Unbeliever who found the Second Ward and saved the Staff of Law-unwillingly, I hear. For forty years, the Loresraat and the Lords have worked for a way to get you back. Don't get me wrong-they've done everything humanly possible to try to find other ways to defend the Land They've built up the Warward, racked their brains over the Lore, risked their necks on things like Mhoram's trip to Foul's Creche. And they're scrupulous. They insist that they accept your ambivalent position. They insist that they don't expect you to save them. All they want is to make it possible for the wild magic to aid the Land, so they won't have to reproach themselves for neglecting a possible hope. But I tell you-they don't believe there is any hope but you.

"You know Lord Mhoram. You should have some idea of just how tough that man is. He's got backbone v he hasn't even touched yet. Listen. He screams in` his sleep. His dreams are that bad. I heard him once. He-I asked him the next morning what possessed him. In that quiet, kind voice of his, he told me that the Land would die if you didn't save it.

“Well, I don't believe that Mhoram or no A Mhoram. But he isn't the only one. High Lord Elena eats, drinks, and sleeps Unbeliever. Wild magic and white gold, Covenant Ringthane. Sometimes I think r she's obsessed. She-”

But Covenant could not remain silent any longer.: He could not stand to be held responsible for so much commitment. Roughly, he cut in, “Why?”

“I don't know. She doesn't even know you.”

“No. I mean, why is she High Lord-instead of Mhoram?”

“What does it matter?” said Troy irritably. “The Council chose her. A couple of years ago-when Osondrea, the old High Lord, died. They put their, minds together-you must have noticed when you were here before how the Lords can pool their thoughts, think together-and she was elected.” As he spoke, the irritation faded from his tone. "They e said she has some special quality, some inner mettle that makes her the best leader for this war. Maybe I don't know what they mean-but I know she's got something. She's impossible to refuse. I would fight with stew forks and soup spoons against Foul

“So I don't understand you. You may be the last man alive who's seen the Celebration of Spring. And there she stands, looking like all the allure of the Land put together-practically begging you. And you!” Troy struck the table with his hand, brandished his empty sockets at Covenant. “You refuse.”

Abruptly, he slapped his sunglasses back on, and flung away from the table to pace the room again, as if he could not sit still in the face of Covenant's perversity.

Covenant watched him, seething at the freedom of Troy's judgment-the trust he placed in his own rectitude. But Covenant had heard something else in Troy's voice, a different explanation. Probing bluntly, he asked, “Is Mhoram in love with her, too?”

At that, Troy spun, pointed a finger rigid with accusation at the Unbeliever. “You know what I think? You're too cynical to see the beauty here. You're too cheap. You've got it made in your `real' world, with all those royalties rolling in. So what if you're sick? That doesn't stop you from getting rich. Coming here just gets in the way of hacking out more best-sellers. Why should you fight the Despiser? You're just like him yourself.”

Before the Warmark could go on, Covenant rasped thickly, “Get out. Shut up and get out.”

“Forget it. I'm not going to leave until you give me one-”

“Get out.”

“-one good reason for the way you're acting. I'm not going to walk away and let you destroy the Land just because the Lords are too scrupulous to lean on you.”

“That's enough!” Covenant was on his feet. His hurt blazed up before he could catch hold of himself. “Don't you even know what a leper is?”

“What difference does that make? It's no worse than not having any eyes. Aren't you healthy here?”

Mustering all the force of his injury, his furious grief, Covenant averred, “No!” He waved his hands.

“Do you call this health? It's a lie!”

That cry visibly stunned Troy. The black assertion of his sunglasses faltered; the inner aura of his spirit was confused by doubt. For the first time, he looked: like a blind man.

“I don't understand,” he said softly.

He faced the onslaught of Covenant's glare for a; moment longer. Then he turned and left the room, moving quietly, as if he had been humbled.

Six: The High Lord

WHEN evening came, Thomas Covenant sat on his balcony to watch the sun set behind the Westron Mountains. Though summer was hardly past, there was a gleam of white snow on many of the peaks. As, the sun dropped behind them, the western sky shone with a sharing of cold and fire. White silver reflected; from the snow across the bottom of a glorious sky, an orange-gold gallant display sailing with full canvas over the horizon.

Covenant watched it bleakly. A scowl knotted his forehead like a fist. He had spent the afternoon in useless rage, but after a time his anger at Troy had died down among the embers of his protest against being summoned to the Land. Now he felt cold at heart, desolate and alone. The resolve he had expressed to Mhoram, his determination to survive; seemed pretentious-fey and anile. And the frown.' clenched his forehead as if the flesh over his skull refused to admit that it had been healed.

He was thinking of jumping from the balcony. To quell his fear of heights, he would have to wait until, the darkness of the night was complete, and he could no longer see the ground. But considered in that way, the idea both attracted and repelled him. It offended his leper's training, heaped ridicule on everything he had already endured to cling to life. It spoke of a defeat-that was as bitter as starkest gall to him. But he yearned for relief from his dilemma. He felt as dry as a wasteland, and rationalizations came easily. Chiefest of these was the argument that since the Land was not real it could not kill him; a death here would only force him back into the reality that was the only thing in which he could believe. In his aloneness, he could not tell whether that argument expressed courage or cowardice.

Slowly, the last of the sun fell behind the mountains, and its emblazonry faded from the sky. Gloaming spread out of the shadow of the peaks, dimming the plains below Covenant until he could only discern them as uneasy, recumbent shapes under the heavens. The stars came out and grew gradually brighter, as if to clarify trackless space; but the voids between them were too great, and the map they made was unreadable. In his dusty, unfertile gaze, they seemed to twinkle unconsolably.

When he heard the polite knock at his door, his need for privacy groaned at the intrusion. But he had other needs as well. He pushed himself to go answer the knock.

The stone door swung open easily on noiseless hinges, and light streamed into the room from the bright-lit hall, dazzling him so that for a moment he did not recognize either of the men outside. Then one of them said, “Ur-Lord Covenant, we bid you welcome,” in a voice that seemed to bubble with good humour. Covenant identified Tohrm.

“Welcome and true,” said Tohrm's companion carefully, as if he were afraid he would make a mistake. “We are the Hearthralls of Lord's Keep. Please accept welcome and comfort.”

As Covenant's eyes adjusted, he considered the two men. Tohrm's companion wore a grey-green Woodhelvennin cloak, and had a small wreath in his hair the mark of a Hirebrand. In his hands he carried several smooth wooden rods for torches. Both the Hearthralls were clean-shaven, but the Hirebrand was taller and slimmer than his partner. Tohrm had the stocky, muscular frame of a Stonedownor, and he wore a loam-coloured tunic with soft trousers. His companion's cloak was bordered in Lords' blue; he had blue epaulets woven into the shoulders of his tunic. Cupped in each of his hands was a small, covered, stone bowl.

Covenant scrutinized Tohrm's face. The Hearthrall's nimble eyes and swift smile were soberer than Covenant remembered them, but still essentially unchanged. Like Mhoram, he did not show enough years to account for the full forty.

“I am Borillar,” Tohrm's companion recited, “Hirebrand of the lillianrill and Hearthrall of Lord's Keep. This is Tohrm, Gravelingas of the rhadhamaerl and likewise Hearthrall of Lord's Keep. Darkness withers v the heart. We have brought you light.”

But as Borillar spoke, a look of concern touched Tohrm's face, and he said, “Ur-Lord, are you well?”

“Well?” Covenant murmured vaguely.

“There is a storm on your brow, and it gives you ` pain. Shall I call a Healer?”

“What?”

“Ur-Lord Covenant, I am in your debt. I am told that at the hazard of your life you rescued my old friend Birinair from beyond the forbidding fire under Mount Thunder. That was bravely done-though it came too late to save his life. Do not hesitate to ask of me. For Birinair's sake, I will do all in my power for you.”

Covenant shook his head. He knew he should correct Tohrm, tell him that he had braved that fire in an effort to immolate himself, not to save Birinair. But he lacked the courage. Dumbly, he stepped aside and let the Hearthralls into his rooms.

Borillar immediately set about lighting his torches; he moved studiously to the wall sockets as if he were trying to create a good, grave impression. Covenant watched him for a moment, and Tohrm said with a covered smile, “Good Borillar is in awe of you, ur-Lord. He has heard the legends of the Unbeliever from his cradle. And he has not been Hearthrall long. His former master in the lillianrill lore resigned this post to oversee the completion of the Gildenlode keels and rudders which they have been devising for the Giants — as High Lord Loric Vilesilencer promised. Borillar feels himself untimely thrust into responsibility. My old friend Birinair would have called him a whelp”

“He's young,” Covenant said dully. Then he turned to Tohrm, forced himself to ask the question which most concerned him. “But you-you're too young. You should be older. Forty years.”

“Ur-Lord, I have seen fifty-nine summers. Forty-one have passed since you came to Revelstone with the Giant, Saltheart Foamfollower.”

“But you're not old enough. You don't look more than forty now.”

“Ah,” said Tohrm, grinning broadly, “the service of our lore, and of Revelstone, keeps us young. Without us, these brave Giant-wrought halls would be dark, and in winter-to speak truly-they would be cold. Who could grow old on the joy of such work?”

Happily, he moved off, set one of his pots on the table in the sitting room, and another in the bedroom by the bed. When he uncovered the pots, the warm glow of the graveling joined the fight of the torches, and gave the illumination in the suite a richer and somehow kinder cast.

Tohrm breathed the graveling's aroma of newly broken earth with a glad smile. He finished while his companion was lighting the last of his torches in the bedroom. Before Borillar could return to the sitting room, the older Hearthrall stepped close to Covenant and whispered, “Ur-Lord, say a word to good Borillar. He will cherish it.”

A moment later, Borillar walked across the room to stand stiffly by the door. He looked like a resolute acolyte, determined not to fail a high duty. Finally his young intentness, and Tohrm's appeal, moved Covenant to say, awkwardly, “Thank you, Hirebrand.”

At once, pleasure transformed Borillar's face. He tried to maintain his gravity, to control his grin, but the man of legends, Unbeliever and Ringthane, had spoken to him, and he blurted out, "Be welcome, ur-Lord Covenant. You will save the Land.

Tohrm cocked an amused eyebrow at his fellow Hearthrall, gave Covenant a gay, grateful bow, and ushered the Hirebrand from the room. As they departed, Tohrm started to close the door, then stopped, nodded to someone in the hall, and went away leaving the door open.

Bannor stepped into the room. He met Covenant's gaze with eyes that never slept-that only rarely blinked-and said, “The High Lord would speak with you now.”

“Oh, hell,” Covenant groaned. He looked back with something like regret at his balcony and the night beyond. Then he went with the Bloodguard.

Walking down the hall, he gave himself a quick VSE. It was a pointless exercise, but he needed the habit of it, if for no other reason than to remind himself of who he was, what the central fact of his life was. He did it deliberately, as a matter of conscious choice. But it did not hold his attention. As he moved, Revelstone exerted its old influence over him again.

The high, intricate ways of the Keep had a strange power of suasion, an ability to carry conviction. They had been delved into the mountain promontory by Saltheart Foamfollower's laughing, story-loving ancestors; and like the Giants they had an air of bluff and inviolable strength. Now Bannor was taking Covenant deeper down into Revelstone than he had ever been before. With his awakening perceptions, he could feel the massive gut-rock standing over him; it was as if he were in palpable contact with absolute weight itself. And on a pitch of hearing that was not quite audible, or not quite hearing, he could sense the groups of people who slept or worked in places beyond the walls from him. Almost he seemed to hear the great Keep breathe. And yet all those myriad, uncountable tons of stone were not fearsome. Revelstone gave him an impression of unimpeachable security; the mountain refused to let him fear that it would fall.

Then he and Bannor reached a dim hall sentried by two Bloodguard standing with characteristic relaxed alacrity on,either side of the entrance. There were no torches or other lights in the hall, but a strong glow illuminated it from its far end. With a nod to his comrades, Bannor led Covenant inward.

At the end of the hall, they entered a wide, round courtyard under a high cavern, with a stone floor as smooth as if it had been meticulously polished for ages. The bright, pale-yellow light came from this floor; the stone shone as if a piece of the sun had gone into its making.

The courtyard held no other lights. But though it was not blinding at the level of the floor, the glow cast out all darkness. Covenant could survey the cave clearly from bottom to top. At intervals up the walls were railed coigns with doors behind them which provided access to the open space above the court.

Bannor paused for a moment to allow Covenant to look around. Then he walked barefoot out onto the shining floor. Tentatively, Covenant followed, fearing that his feet would be burned. But he felt nothing through his boots except a quiet resonance of power. It set up a tingling vibration in his nerves.

Only after he became accustomed to the touch of the floor did he notice that there were doors widely spaced around the courtyard. He counted fifteen. Bloodguard sentries stood at nine of them, and several feet into the shining floor from each of these nine was a wooden tripod. Three of these tripods held Lords' staffs-and one of the staffs was the Staff of Law. It was distinguished from the smooth wood of the other staffs by its greater thickness, and by the complex runes carved into it between its iron heels.

Bannor took Covenant to the door behind the Staff. The Bloodguard there stepped forward to meet them, greeted Bannor with a nod.

Bannor said, “I have brought ur-Lord Covenant to the High Lord.”

“She awaits him.” Then the sentry levelled the impassive threat of his gaze at Covenant. “We are the Bloodguard. The care of the Lords is in our hands. I am Morin, First Mark of the Bloodguard since the passing of Tuvor. The High Lord will speak with you alone. Think no harm against her, Unbeliever. We will not permit it.” Without waiting for an answer, Morin, stepped aside to let him approach the door.

Covenant was about to ask what harm he could possibly do the High Lord, but Bannor forestalled him “In this place,” the Bloodguard explained, “the Lords set aside their burdens. Their staffs they leave here, and within these doors they rest, forgetting the cares of the Land. The High Lord honours you greatly in speaking to you here. Without Staff or guard, she greets you as a friend in her sole private place. Ur-Lord, you are not a foe of the Land. But you give little respect. Respect this.”

He held Covenant's gaze for a moment as if to enforce his words. Then he went and knocked at the door.

When the High Lord opened her door, Covenant saw her clearly for the first time. She had put aside her blue Lord's robe, and instead wore a long, light brown Stonedownor shift with a white pattern woven into the shoulders. A white cord knotted at her waist emphasized her figure, and her thick hair, a rich brown with flashes of pale honey, fell to her shoulders, disguising the pattern there. She appeared younger than he had expected-he would have said that she was in her early thirties at most-but her face was strong, and the white skin of her forehead and throat knew much about sternness and discipline, though she smiled almost shyly when she saw Covenant.

But behind the experience of responsibility and commitment in her features was something strangely evocative. She seemed distantly familiar, as if in. the background of her face she resembled someone he had once known. This impression was both heightened and denied by her eyes. They were grey like his own; but though they met him squarely they had an elsewhere cast, a disunion of focus, as if she were watching something else-as if some other, more essential eyes, the eyes of her mind, were looking somewhere else. Her gaze touched parts of him which had not responded for a long time.

“Please enter,” she said in a voice like a clear spring.

Moving woodenly, Covenant went past her into her rooms, and she shut the door behind him, closing out the light from the courtyard. Her antechamber was illumined simply by a pot of graveling in each corner. Covenant stopped in the centre of the room, and looked about him. The space was bare and unadorned, containing nothing but the graveling, a few stone chairs, and a table on which stood a white carving; but still the room seemed quiet and comfortable. The light gave this effect, he decided. The warm graveling glow made even flat stone companionable, enhanced the essential security of Revelstone. It was like being cradled-wrapped in the arms of the rock and cared for.

High Lord Elena gestured toward one of the chairs. “Will you sit? There is much of which I would speak with you.”

He remained standing, looking away from her. Despite the room's ambience, he felt intensely uncomfortable. Elena was his summoner, and he distrusted her. But when he found his voice, he half surprised himself by expressing one of his most private concerns. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Bannor knows more than he's telling.”

He caught her off guard. “More?” she echoed, groping. “What has he said that leaves more concealed?”

But he had already said more than he intended. He kept silent, watching her out of the corner of his sight.

“The Bloodguard know doubt,” she went on unsurely. “Since Kevin Landwaster preserved them from the Desecration and his own end, they have felt a distrust of their own fidelity-though none would dare to raise any accusation against them. Do you speak of this?”

He did not want to reply, but her direct attention compelled him. “They've already lived too long. Bannor knows it.” Then, to escape the subject, he went over to the table to look at the carving. The white statuette stood on an ebony base. It was a rearing Ranyhyn mare made of a material that looked like bone. The work was blunt of detail, but through some secret of its art it expressed the power of the great muscles, the intelligence of the eyes, the oriflamme of the guttering mane.

Without approaching him, Elena said, “That is my craft-marrowmeld. Does it please you? It is Myrha, the Ranyhyn that bears me.”

Something stirred in Covenant. He did not want to think about the Ranyhyn, but he thought that he had found a discrepancy. “Foamfollower told me that the marrowmeld craft had been lost.”

“So it was. I alone in the Land practice this Ramen craft. Anundivian yajna, also named marrowmeld or bone-sculpting, was lost to the Ramen during their exile in the Southron Range-during the Ritual of Desecration. I do not speak in pride-I have been blessed in many things. When I was a child, a Ranyhyn bore me into the mountains. For three days we did not return, so that my mother thought me dead. But the Ranyhyn taught me much-much- In my learning, I recovered the ancient craft. The lore to reshape dry bones came to my hands. Now I practice it here, when the work of the Lords wearies me.”

Covenant kept his back to her, but he was not studying her sculpture. He was listening to her voice as if he expected it to change at any moment into the voice of someone he knew. Her tone resonated with implicit meanings. But he could not make them out. Abruptly, he turned to meet her eyes. Again, though she faced him, she seemed to be looking at or thinking about something else, something beyond him. Her elsewhere glance disturbed him. Studying her, his frown deepened until he wore the healing of his forehead like a crown of thorns.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Will you sit?” she said quietly. “There is much I would speak of with you.”

“Like what?”

The hardness of his tone did not make her flinch, but she spoke more quietly still. “I hope to find a way to win your help against the Despiser.”

Thinking self-contemptuous thoughts, he retorted, “How far are you willing to go?”

For an instant, the other focus of her eyes came close to him, touched him like a lick of fire. Blood rushed to his face, and he almost recoiled a step-so strongly did he feel for that instant that she had the capacity to go far beyond anything he could imagine. But the glimpse passed before he could guess at what it was. She turned unhurriedly away, went briefly into one of her other rooms. When she returned, she bore in her hands a wooden casket bound with old iron.

Holding the casket as if it contained something precious, she said, "'The Council has been much concerned in this matter. Some said, `Such a gift is too great for anyone. Let it be kept and safe for as long as we may be able to endure.' And others said, `It will fail of its purpose, for he will believe that we seek to buy his aid with gifts. He will be angered against us, and will refuse.' So spoke Lord Mhoram, whose knowledge of the Unbeliever is more than any other's. But I said, `He is not our foe. He gives us no aid because he cannot give aid. Though he holds the white gold, its use is beyond him or forbidden him. Here is a weapon which surpasses us. It may be that he will be able to master it, and that with such a weapon he will help us, though he cannot use the white gold.'

"After much thought and concern, my voice prevailed. Therefore the Council asks to give you this gift, so that its power will not lie idle, but will turn against the Despiser.

“Ur-Lord Covenant, this is no light offering. Forty years ago, it was not in the possession of the Council. But the Staff of Law opened doors deep in Revelstone — doors which had been closed since the Desecration. The Lords hoped that these chambers contained other Wards of Kevin's Lore-but no Wards were there. Yet among many things of forgotten use or little power this was found-this which we offer to you.”

She pressed curiously on the sides of the casket, and the lid swung open, revealing a cushioned velvet interior, on which lay a short silver sword. It was a two edged blade, with straight guards and a ribbed hilt; and it was forged around a clear white gem, which occupied the junction of the blade, guards, and hilt. This gem looked strangely lifeless; it reflected no light from the graveling, as if it were impervious or dead to any ordinary flame.

With awe in her low voice, Elena said, “This is the krill of Loric Vilesilencer son of Damelon son of Berek. With this he slew the Demondim guise of moksha Raver, and delivered the Land from the first great peril of the ur-viles. Ur-Lord Covenant, Unbeliever and Ringthane, will you accept it?”

Slowly, full of a leper's fascinated dread of things that cut, Covenant lifted the krill from its velvet rest. Hefting it, he found that its balance pleased his hand, though his two fingers and thumb could not grip it well. Cautiously, he tested its edges with his thumb. They were as dull as if they had never been honed as dull as the white gem. For a moment, he stood still, thinking that a knife did not need to be sharp to harm him.

“Mhoram was right,” he said out of the dry, lonely hebetude of his heart. “I don't want any gifts. I've had more gifts than I can bear.”

Gifts! It seemed to him that everyone he had ever known in the Land had tried to give him gifts-Foamfollower, the Ranyhyn, — Lord Mhoram, even Atiaran. The Land itself gave him an impossible nerve-health. But the gift of Lena Atiaran-daughter was more terrible than all the others. He had raped her, raped! And afterward, she had gone into hiding so that her people would not learn what had happened to her and punish him. She had acted with an extravagant forbearance so that he could go free-free to deliver Lord Foul's prophecy of doom to the Lords. Beside that self-abnegation, even Atiaran's sacrifices paled.

Lena! he cried. A violence of grief and self-recrimination blazed up in him. “I don't want any more.” Thunder blackened his face. He grasped the krill in both fists, its blade pointing downward. With a convulsive movement, he stabbed the sword at the heart of the table, trying to break its blunt blade on the stone.

A sudden flash of white blinded him like an instant of lightning. The krill wrenched out of his hands. But he did not try to see what had happened to it. He spun instantly back to face Elena. Through the white dazzle that confused his sight, he panted, “No more gifts! I can't afford them!”

But she was not looking at him, not listening to him. She held her hands to her mouth as she stared past him at the table. “By the Seven!” she whispered. “What have you done?”

What-?

He whirled to look.

The blade of the krill had pierced the stone; it was embedded halfway to its guards in the table.

Its white gem burned like a star.

Dimly, he became conscious of a throbbing ache in his wedding finger. His ring felt hot and heavy, almost molten. But he ignored it; he was afraid of it. Trembling, he reached out to touch the krill.

Power burned his fingers.

Hellfire!

He snatched his hand away. The fierce pain made him clasp his fingers under his other arm, and groan.

At once, Elena turned to him. “Are you harmed?” she asked anxiously. “What has happened to you?”

“Don't touch me!” he gasped.

She recoiled in confusion, then stood watching him, torn between her concern for him and her astonishment at the blazing gem. After a moment, she shook herself as if throwing off incomprehension, and said softly, “Unbeliever-you have brought the krill to life.”

Covenant made an effort to match her, but his voice quavered as he said, “It won't make any difference. It won't do you any good. Foul's got all the power that counts.”

“He does not possess the white gold.”

“To hell with the white gold!”

“No!” she retorted vehemently. “Do not say such a thing. I have not lived my life for nothing. My mother, and her mother before her, have not lived for nothing!”

He did not understand her, but her sudden passion silenced him. He felt trapped between her and the krill; he did not know what to say or do. Helpless, he stared at the High Lord as her own emotions grew into speech.

“You say that this makes no difference-that it does no good. Are you a prophet? And if you are, what do you say that we should do? Surrender?” For an instant, her self-possession wavered, and she exclaimed furiously, “Never!” He thought that he heard hatred in her words. But then she lowered her voice, and the sound of loathing faded. “No! There is no one in the Land who could endure to stand aside and allow the Despiser to work his will. H we must suffer and die without hope, then we will do so. But we will not despair, though it is the Unbeliever himself who says that we must ”

Useless emotions writhed across his face, but he could not answer. His own conviction or energy had fallen into dust. Even the pain in his hand was almost gone. He looked away from her, then winced at the sharp sight of the krill. Slowly, as if he had aged in the past few moments, he lowered himself into a chair. “I wish,” he murmured blankly, emptily, “I wish I knew what to do.”

At the edge of his attention, he was aware that Elena had left the room. But he did not raise his head until she returned and stood before him. In her hands she held a flask of springwine which she offered to him.

He could see a concern he did not deserve in the complex otherness of her gaze.

He accepted the flask and drank deeply, searching for a balm to ease the splitting ache in his forehead and for some way to support his failing courage. He dreaded the High Lord's intentions, whatever they were. She was too sympathetic, too tolerant of his violence; she allowed him too much leeway without setting him free. Despite the solidness of Revelstone under his sensitive feet, he was on unsteady ground.

When after a short silence she spoke again, she had an air of bringing herself to the point of some difficult honesty; but there was nothing candid in the unexplained disfocus of her eyes. “I am lost in this matter,” she said. “There is much that I must tell you, if I am to be open and blameless. I do not wish to be reproached with any lack of knowledge in you-the Land will not be served by any concealment which might later be called by another name. Yet my courage fails me, and I know not what words to use. Mhoram offered to take this matter from me, and I refused, believing that the burden is mine. Yet now I am lost, and cannot begin.”

Covenant bent his frown toward her, refusing with the pain in his forehead to give her any aid.

“You have spoken with Hile Troy,” she said tentatively, unsure of this approach. “Did he describe his coming to the Land?”

Covenant nodded without relenting. “An accident. Some misbegotten kid-a young student, he says-was trying to get me.”

Elena moved as if she meant to pursue that idea, but then she stopped herself, reconsidered, and took a different tack. “I do not know your world-but the Warmark tells me that such things do not happen there. Have you observed Lord Mhoram? Or Hiltmark Quaan? Or perhaps Hearthrall Tohrm? Any of those you knew forty years ago? Does it appear to you that-that they are young?”

“I've noticed.” Her question agitated him. He had been clinging to the question of age, trying to establish it as a discrepancy, a breakdown in the continuity of his delusion. “It doesn't fit. Mhoram and Tohrm are too young. It's impossible. They are not forty years older.”

“I also am young,” she said intently, as if she were trying to help him guess a secret. But at the sight of his glowering incomprehension, she retreated from the plunge. To answer him, she said, "This has been true for as long as there has been such lore in the Land. The Old Lords lived to great age. They were not long-lived as the Giants are-because that is the natural span of their people. No, it was the service of the Earthpower which preserved' them, secured them from age long past their normal years. High Lord Kevin lived centuries as people live decades.

“So, too, it is in this present time, though in a lesser way. We do not bring out all the potency of the Lore. And the Warlore does not preserve its followers, so Quaan and his warriors alone of your former comrades carry their full burden of years. But those of the rhadhamaerl and the lillianrill, and the Lords who follow Kevin's Lore, age more slowly than others. This is a great boon, for it extends our strength. But also it causes grief-”

She fell silent for a moment, sighed quietly to herself as if she were remembering an old injury. But when she spoke again, her voice was clear and steady. “So it has always been. Lord Mhoram has seen ten times seven summers-yet he hardly carries fifty of them. And-” Once again, she stopped herself and changed directions. With a look that searched Covenant, she said, “Does it surprise you to hear that I rode a Ranyhyn as a child? There is no other in the Land who.has had such good fortune.”

He finished his springwine, and got to his feet to pace the room in front of her. The tone in which she recurred to the Ranyhyn was full of suggestions; he sensed wide possibilities of distress in it. More in anxiety than in irritation, he growled at her, “Hellfire. Get on with it.”

She tensed as if in preparation for a struggle, and said, "Warmark Hile Troy's account of his summoning to the Land may not have been altogether accurate. I have heard him tell his tale, and he confuses something which I-we- have not thought it well to correct. We have kept this matter secret between us.

“Ur-Lord Covenant.” She paused, steadying herself, then said carefully, “Hile Troy was summoned by no young student, ignorant of the perils of power. The summoner was one whom you have known.”

Triock! Covenant almost missed his footing. Triock son of Thuler, of Mithil Stonedown, had reason to hate the Unbeliever. He had loved Lena-but Covenant could not bear to say that name aloud. Squirming at his cowardice, he avoided Triock by saying, “Pietten. That poor kid-from Soaring Woodhelven. The ur-viles did something to him. Was it him?” He did not dare to meet the High Lord's eyes.

“No, Thomas Covenant,” she said gently. “It was no man. You knew her well. She was Atiaran Trell-mate- she who guided you from Mithil Stonedown to your meeting with Saltheart Foamfollower at the Soulsease River.”

“Hellfire!” he groaned. At the sound of her name, he saw in his mind Atiaran's spacious eyes, saw the courage with which she had denied her passion against him in order to serve the Land. And he caught a quick visionary image of her face as she incinerated herself trying to summon him-entranced, bitter, livid with the conflagration of all the inner truces which he had so severely harmed. “Ah, hell,” he breathed. “Why? She needed-she needed to forget.”

“She could not. Atiaran Trell-mate returned to the Loresraat in her old age for many reasons, but two were uppermost. She desired to bring-no, desire is too small a word. She hungered for you. She could not forget. But whether she wanted you for the Land, or for herself, I do not know. She was a torn woman, and it is in my heart that both hungers warred in her to the last. How otherwise? She said that you permitted the ravage of the Celebration of Spring, though my mother taught me a different tale.”

No! moaned Covenant, pacing bent as if borne down by the weight of the darkness on his forehead. Oh, Atiaran!

"Her second reason touches on the grief of long years and extended strength. For her husband was Trell, Gravelingas of the rhadhamaerl. Their marriage was brave and glad in the memory of Mithil Stonedown, for though she had surpassed her strength during her youth in the Loresraat, and had left in weakness, yet was she strong enough to stand with Trell her husband.

"But her weakness, her self-distrust, remained. The grave test of her life came and passed, and she grew old. And to the pain you gave her was added another; she aged, and Trell Atiaran-mate did not. His lore sustained him beyond his years. So after so much hurt she began to lose her husband as well, though his love was steadfast. She was his wife, yet she became old enough to be his mother.

“So she returned to the Loresraat, in grief and pain-and in devotion, for though she doubted herself, her love for the Land did not waver. Yet at the last ill came upon her. Fleeing the restraint of the Lorewardens, she wrought death upon herself. In that way, she broke her Oath of Peace, and ended her life in despair.”

No! he protested. But he remembered Atiaran's anguish, and the price she had paid to repress it, and the wrong he had done her. He feared that Elena was right.

In a sterner voice that did not appear to match her words, the High Lord continued, “After her death, Trell came to Revelstone. He is one of the mightiest of all the rhadhamaerl, and he remains here, giving his skill and lore to the defence of the Land. But he knows bitterness, and I fear that his Oath rests uneasily upon him. For all his gentleness, he has been too much made helpless. It is in my heart that he does not forgive. There was no aid he could give Atiaran — or my mother.”

Through the ache of his memories, Covenant wanted to protest that Trell, with his broad shoulders and his strange power, knew nothing about the true nature of helplessness. But this objection was choked off by the grip of Elena's voice as she said, my mother. He stood still, bent as if he were about to capsize, and waited for the last unutterable blackness to fall on him.

“So you must understand why I rode a Ranyhyn as a child. Every year at the last full moon before the middle night of spring, a Ranyhyn came to Mithil Stonedown. My mother understood at once that this was a gift from you. And she shared it with me. It was so easy for her to forget that you had hurt her. Did I not tell you that I also am young? I am Elena daughter of Lena daughter of Atiaran Trell-mate. Lena my mother remains in Mithil Stonedown, for she insists that you will return to her.”

For one more moment, he stood still, staring at the pattern woven into the shoulders of her shift. Then a flood of revelations crashed through him, and he understood. He stumbled, dropped into a chair as suddenly as if his spine had broken. His stomach churned, and he gagged, trying to heave up his emptiness.

“I'm sorry.” The words burst between his teeth as if torn out of his chest by a hard fist of contrition. They were as inadequate as stillborns, too dead to express what he felt. But he could do nothing else. “Oh, Lena! I'm sorry.” He wanted to weep, but he was a leper, and had forgotten how.

“I was impotent.” He forced the jagged confession through his sore throat. “I forgot what it's like. Then we were alone. And I felt like a man again, but I knew it wasn't true, it was false, I was dreaming, had to be, it couldn't happen any other way. It was too much. I couldn't stand it.”

“Do not speak to me of impotence,” she returned tightly. “I am the High Lord. I must defeat the Despiser using arrows and swords.” Her tone was harsh; he could hear other words running through it, as if she were saying, Do you think that mere explanation or apology is sufficient reparation? And without the diseased numbness which justified him, he could not argue.

“No,” he said in a shaking voice. “Nothing suffices.”

Slowly, heavily, he raised his head and looked at her. Now he could see in her the sixteen-year-old child he had known, her mother. That was her hidden familiarity. She had her mother's hair, her mother's figure. Behind her discipline, her face was much like her mother's. And she wore the same white leaf-pattern woven into the cloth at her shoulders which Lena had worn-the pattern of Trell's and Atiaran's family.

When he met her eyes, he saw that they, too, were like Lena's. They glowed with something that was neither anger nor condemnation; they seemed to contradict the judgment he had heard a moment earlier.

“What are you going to do now?” he said weakly. “Atiaran wanted-wanted the Lords to punish me.”

Abruptly, she left her seat, moved around behind him. She put her hands tenderly on his clenched brow and began to rub it, seeking to stroke away the knots and furrows. “Ah, Thomas Covenant,” she sighed, with something like yearning in her voice. “I am the High Lord. I bear the Staff of Law. I fight for the r Land, and will not quail though the beauty may die, or I may die, or the world may die. But there is much of Lena my mother in me. Do not frown at me so. I cannot bear it.”

Her soft, cool, consoling touch seemed to burn his forehead. Mhoram had said that she had sat with him.' during his ordeal the previous night-sat, and watched over him, and held his hand. Trembling, he got to his feet. Now he knew why she had summoned him. There was a world of implications in the air between them; her whole life was on his head, for good or ill. But it was too much; he was too staggered and drained to grasp it all, deal with it. His stiff face was only capable of grimaces. Mutely, he left her, and Bannor guided him back to his rooms.

In his suite, he extinguished the torches, covered the graveling pots. Then he went out onto his balcony.

The moon was rising over Revelstone. It was still new, and it came in silver over the horizon, tinting the plains with unviolated luminescence. He breathed the autumn air, and leaned on the railing, immune for the moment from vertigo. Even that had been drained out of him.

He did not think about jumping. He thought about how difficult Elena was to refuse.

Seven: Korik's Mission

SOMETIME before dawn, an insistent pounding at his door woke him. He had been dreaming about the Quest for the Staff of Law-about his friend, Saltheart Foamfollower, whom the company of the Quest had left behind to guard their rear before they had entered the catacombs of Mount Thunder. Covenant had not seen him again, did not know whether the Giant had survived that perilous duty. When he awoke, his heart was labouring as if the clamour at the door were the beating of his dread.

Numbly, dazed with sleep, he uncovered a graveling pot, then shambled into the sitting room to answer the door.

He found a man standing in the brightness of the hall. His blue robe belted in black and his long staff identified him as a Lord.

“Ur-Lord Covenant,” the man began at once. “I must apologize profusely for disturbing your rest. Of all the Lords, I am the one who most regrets such an intrusion. I have a deep love for rest. Rest and food, ur-Lord- sleep and sustenance. They are exquisite. Although there are some who would say that I have tasted so much sustenance that I should no longer require rest. No doubt some such argument caused me to be chosen for this arduous and altogether unsavoury journey.” Without asking for permission, he bustled past Covenant into the room. He was grinning.

Covenant blinked his bleary gaze into focus, and took a close look at the man.

He was short and corpulent, with a round, beatific face, but the serenity of his countenance was punctured by his gleeful eyes, so that he looked like a misbegotten cherub. His expression was constantly roiled; fleet smiles, smirks, frowns, grimaces chased each other across the surface of his essential good humour. Now he was regarding Covenant with a look of appraisal, as if he were trying to gauge the Unbeliever's responsiveness to jesting.

“I am Hyrim son of Hoole,” he said fluidly, “a Lord of the Council, as you see, and a lover of all good cheer, as you have perhaps not failed to notice.” His eyes gleamed impishly. “I would tell you of my parentage and history, so that you might know me better-but my time is short. There are consequences to this riding of Ranyhyn, but when I offered myself to their choice I did not know that the honour could be so burdensome. Perhaps you will consent to accompany me?”

Mutely, Covenant's lips formed the word, Accompany?

“To the courtyard, at least-if I can persuade you no farther. I will explain while you ready yourself.”

Covenant felt too groggy to understand what was being asked of him. The Lord wanted him to get' dressed and go somewhere. Was that all? After a moment, he found his voice, and asked, “Why?”

With an effort, Hyrim pulled an expression of Seriousness onto his face. He studied Covenant gravely, then said, “Ur-Lord, there are some things which are difficult to say to you. Both Lord Mhoram and high Lord Elena might have spoken. They do not desire that this knowledge should be withheld from you. But brother Mhoram is reluctant to describe his own pain. And the High Lord-it is in my heart that she fears to send you into peril.”

He grinned ruefully. “But I am not so selfless. You will agree that there is much of me to consider-and every part is tender. Courage is for the lean. I am wiser. Wisdom is no more and no less deep than the skin-and mine is very deep. Of course, it is said that trial and hardship refine the spirit. But I have heard the Giants reply that there is time enough to refine the spirit when the body has no other choice.”

Covenant had heard that, too; Foamfollower had said it to him. He shook his head to clear away the painful memory. “I don't understand.”

“You have cause,” said the Lord. “I have not yet uttered anything of substance. Ah, Hyrim,” he sighed to himself, “brevity is such a simple thing-and yet it surpasses you. Ur-Lord, will you not dress? I must tell you news of the Giants which will not please you.”

A pang of anxiety stiffened Covenant. He was no longer sleepy. “Tell me.”

“While you dress.”

Causing silently, Covenant hurried into the bedroom and began to put on his clothes.

Lord Hyrim spoke from the other room. His tone was careful, as if he were making a deliberate effort to be concise. “Ur-Lord, you know of the Giants. Saltheart Foamfollower himself brought you to Revelstone. You were present in the Close when he spoke to the Council of Lords, telling them that the omens which High Lord Damelon had foreseen for the Giants' hope of Home had come to pass.”

Covenant knew; he remembered it vividly. Back in the age of the Old Lords, the Giants had been wanderers of the sea who had lost their way. For that reason, they called themselves the Unhomed. They had roamed for decades in search of their lost homeland, but had not found it. At last, they had come to the shores of the Land in the region known as Seareach, and there-welcomed and befriended by Damelon-they had made a place for themselves to live until they rediscovered their ancient Home.

Since that time, three thousand years ago, their search had been fruitless. But Damelon Giantfriend had prophesied for them; he had foreseen an end to their exile.

After, and perhaps because, they had lost their Home, the Giants had begun to decline. Though they dearly loved children, few children were born; their seed did not replenish itself. For many centuries, their numbers had been slowly shrinking.

Damelon had foretold that this would change, that their seed would regain its vitality. That was his omen, his sign that the exile was about to end, for good or ill.

In his turn, Damelon's son, Loric, had made a promise to support and affirm that prophecy. He had said that, when Damelon's omens were fulfilled, the Lords would provide the Giants with potent Gildenlode keels and rudders for the building of new ships for their homeward journey.

So it was that Foamfollower had reported to the Council that Wavenhair Haleall, the wife of Sparlimb Keelsetter, had given birth to triplets, three sons-an event unprecedented in Seareach. And at the same time, scouting ships had returned to say that they had found a way which might lead the Giants Home. Foamfollower had come to Revelstone to claim High Lord Loric's promise.

“For forty years,” Lord Hyrim went on, “the lillianrill of Lord's Keep have striven to meet that promise. The seven keels and rudders are now nearly complete. But time hurries on our heels, driving us dangerously. When this war begins, we will be unable to transport the Gildenlode to Seareach. And we will need the help of the Giants to fight Lord Foul. Yet it may be that all such helps or hopes will fail. It may be-”

“Foamfollower,” Covenant interrupted. He fumbled at the laces of his boots. A keen concern made him impatient, urgent. “What about him? Is he-? What happened to him-after the Quest?”

The Lord's tone became still more careful. "When the Quest for the Staff of Law made its way homeward, it found that Saltheart Foamfollower was alive and unharmed. He had gained the safety of Andelain, and so had escaped the Fire-Lions. He returned to his people, and since that time he has come twice to Revelstone to help in the shaping of the Gildenlode and to share knowledge. Many Giants came and went, full of hope.

“But now, ur-Lord-” Hyrim stopped. There was sorrow and grimness in his voice. “Ah, now.”

Covenant strode back into the sitting room, faced the Lord. “Now?” His own voice was unsteady.

"Now for three years a silence has lain over Seareach. No Giant has come to Revelstone-no Giant has set foot on the Upper Land.“ To answer the sudden flaring of Covenant's gaze, he continued, ”Oh, we have not been idle. For a year we did nothing-Seareach is near to four hundred leagues distant, and a silence of a year is not unusual. But after a year, we became concerned. Then for a year we sent messengers. None have ever returned. During the spring, we sent an entire Eoman. Twenty warriors and their Warhaft did not return.

“Therefore the Council decided to risk no more warriors. In the summer, Lord Callindrill and Lord Amatin rode eastward with their Bloodguard, seeking passage. They were thrown back by a dark and nameless power in Sarangrave Flat. Sister Amatin would have died when her horse fell, but the Ranyhyn of Callindrill bore them both to safety. Thus a shadow has come between us and our ancient Rockbrothers, and the fate of the Giants is unknown.”

Covenant groaned inwardly. Foamfollower had been his friend-and yet he had not even said goodbye to the Giant when they had parted. He felt an acute regret. He wanted to see Foamfollower again, wanted to apologize.

But at the same time he was conscious of Hyrim's gaze on him. The Lord's naturally gay eyes held a look of painful sombreness. Clearly, he had some reason for awakening Covenant before dawn like this. With a jerk of his shoulders, Covenant pushed down his regret, and said, “I still don't understand.”

At first Lord Hyrim did not falter. “Then I will speak plainly. During the night after your summoning, Lord Mhoram was called from your side by a vision. The hand of his power came upon him, and he saw sights which turned his blood to dread in his veins. He saw-” Then abruptly he turned away. “Ah, Hyrim,” he sighed, “you are a fat, thistle-brained fool. What business had you to dream of Lords and Lore, of Giants and bold undertakings? When such thoughts first entered your childish head, you should have been severely punished and sent to tend sheep. Your thick, inept self does scant honour to Hoole Gren-mate your father, who trusted that your foolish fancies would not lead you astray.” Over his shoulder, he said softly, “Lord Mhoram saw the death of the Giants marching toward them. He could not make out the face of that death. But he saw that if they are not aided soon-soon, perhaps in a score of days! — they will surely be destroyed.”

Destroyed? Covenant echoed silently. Destroyed? Then he went a step further. Is that my fault, tool “Why,” he began, then swallowed roughly. “Why are you telling me? What do you expect me to do?”

"Because of brother Mhoram's vision, the Council has decided that it must send a mission to Seareach at once-now. Because of the war, we cannot spare much of our strength-but Mhoram says that speed is needed more than strength. Therefore High Lord. Elena has chosen two Lords-two Lords who have been accepted by the Ranyhyn — Shetra Verement-mate, whose knowledge of Sarangrave Flat is greater than any other's, and Hyrim son of Hoole, who has a passing acquaintance with the lore of the Giants. To accompany us, First Mark Morin has chosen fifteen Bloodguard led by Korik, Cerrin, and Sill. The High Lord has given the mission to them as well as to us, so that if we fall they will go on to the Giants' aid.

“Korik is among the most senior of the Bloodguard.” The Lord seemed to be digressing, avoiding something that he hesitated to say. “With Tuvor, Morin, Bannor, and Terrel, he commanded the original Haruchai army which marched against the Land — marched, and met High Lord Kevin, with the Ranyhyn and the Giants, and was moved by love and wonder and gratitude to swear the Vow of service which began the Bloodguard. Sill is the Bloodguard who holds me in his especial care, just as Cerrin holds Lord Shetra. I will require them to hold us well,” Hyrim growled with a return to humour. “I do not wish to lose all this flesh which I have so joyfully gained.”

In frustration, Covenant repeated sharply, “What do you expect me to do?”

Slowly, Hyrim turned to face him squarely. “You have known Saltheart Foamfollower,” he said. “I wish you to come with us.”

Covenant gaped at the Lord in astonishment. He felt suddenly faint. From a distance, he heard himself asking weakly, “Does the High Lord know about this?”

Hyrim grinned. “Her anger will blister the skin of my face when she hears what I have said to you.” But a moment later, he was sober again. "Ur-Lord, I do not say that you should accompany us. Perhaps I am greatly wrong in my asking. There is much that we do not know concerning the Despiser's intent for this war-and of these one of the greatest is our ignorance of the direction from which he will attack. Will he move south of Andelain as he has in past ages, and then strike northward through the Centre Plains, or will he march north along Landsdrop to approach us from the east? This ignorance paralyzes our defence. The Warward cannot move until we know the answer. Warmark Troy is much concerned. But if Lord Foul chooses to assail us from the east, then our mission to Seareach will ride straight into his strength. For that reason, it would be unsurpassable folly for the white gold to accompany us.

“No, if it were wise for you to ride with us, Lord Mhoram would have spoken of it with you. Nevertheless I ask. I love the Giants deeply, ur-Lord. They are precious to all the Land. I would brave even High Lord Elena's wrath to give them any aid.”

The simple sincerity of the Lord's appeal touched Covenant. Though he had just met the man, he found that he liked Hyrim son of Hoole-liked him and wanted to help him. And the Giants were a powerful argument. He could not bear to — think that Foamfollower, so full of life and laughter and comprehension, might be killed if he were not given aid. But that argument reminded Covenant bitterly that he was less capable of help than anyone in the Land. And Elena's influence was still strong on him. He did not want to do anything to anger her, anything that would give her additional cause to hate him. He was torn; he could not answer the candid question in Hyrim's gaze.

Abruptly, the Lord's eyes filled with tears. He looked away, blinking rapidly. “I have given you pain, ur-Lord,” he said softly. “Forgive me.” Covenant expected to hear irony, criticism, in the words, but Hyrim's tone expressed only an un-complex sorrow. When he faced Covenant again, his lips wore a lame smile. “Well, then. Will you not at least come with me to the courtyard? The mission will soon meet there to depart. Your presence will say to all Revelstone that you act from choice rather than from ignorance.”

That Covenant could not refuse; he was too ashamed of his essential impotence, too angry. Kicking himself vehemently into motion, he strode out of his suite.

At once, he found Bannor at his elbow. Between the Bloodguard and the Lord, he stalked downward through the halls and passages toward the gates of Revelstone.

There was only one entrance to Lord's Keep, and the Giants had designed it well to defend the city. At the wedge tip of the plateau, they had hollowed out the stone to form a courtyard between the main Keep and the watchtower which protected the outer gates. Those gates-huge, interlocking stone slabs which could close inward to seal the entrance completely led to a tunnel under the tower. The tunnel opened into the courtyard, and the entrance from the courtyard to the Keep was defended by another set of gates as massive and solid as the first. The main Keep was joined to the tower by a series of wooden crosswalks suspended at intervals above the court, but the only ground-level access to the tower was through two small doors on either side of the tunnel. Thus any enemy who accomplished the almost impossible task of breaking the outer gates would then have to attempt the same feat at the inner gates while under attack from the battlements of both the watchtower and the main Keep.

The courtyard was paved with flagstones except in the centre, where an old Gilden tree grew, nourished by springs of fresh water. Lord Hyrim, Bannor, and Covenant found the rest of the mission there beside the tree, under the waning darkness of the sky. Dawn had begun.

Shivering in the crisp air, Covenant looked around the court. In the light which reflected from within the Keep, he could see that all the people near the tree were Bloodguard except for one Lord, a tall woman. She stood facing into Revelstone; Covenant could see her clearly. She had stiff, iron-grey hair that she wore cropped short; and her, face was like the face of a hawk-keen of nose and eye, lean of cheek. Her eyes held a sharp gleam like the hunting stare of a hawk. But behind the gleam, Covenant discerned something that looked like an ache of desire, a yearning which she could neither satisfy nor repress.

Lord Hyrim greeted her companionably, but she ignored him, stared back into the Keep as if she could not bear to leave it.

Behind her, the Bloodguard were busy distributing burdens, packing their supplies into bundles with clingor thongs. These they tied to their backs so that their movements would not be hampered. Soon one of them-Covenant recognized Korik-stepped forward and announced to Lord Hyrim that he was ready.

“Ready, friend Korik?” Hyrim's voice had a jaunty sound. “Ah, would that I could say the same. But, by the Seven! I am not a man suited for great dangers I am better made to applaud victories than to perform them. Yes, that is where my skills lie. Were you to bring me a victory, I could drink a pledge to it which would astound you. But this-riding at speed across the Land, into the teeth of who knows what ravenous perils-! Can you tell us of these perils, Korik?”

“Lord?”

“I have given this matter thought, friend Korik you may imagine how difficult it was for me. But I see that the High Lord gave this mission into your hands for good reason. Hear what I have thought-efforts like mine should not be wasted. Consider this. Of all the people of Revelstone, only the Bloodguard have known the Land before the Desecration. You have known Kevin himself. Surely you know far more of him than do we. And surely, also, you know far more of the Despiser. Perhaps you know how he wages war. Perhaps you know more than Lord Callindrill could tell us of the dangers which lie between us and Seareach.”

Korik shrugged slightly.

“It is in my heart,” Hyrim went on, “that you can measure the dangers ahead better than any Lord. You should speak of them, so that we may prepare. It may be that we should not risk Grimmerdhore or the Sarangrave, but should rather ride north and around, despite the added length of days.”

“The Bloodguard do not know the future.” Korik's tone was impassive, yet Covenant heard a faint stress on the word know. Korik seemed to use that word in a different sense than Hyrim did, a larger or more prophetic sense.

And the Lord was unsatisfied. “Perhaps not. But you did not share Kevin's reign and learn nothing. Do you fear we cannot endure the knowledge you bear?”

“Hyrim, you forget yourself,” Lord Shetra cut in abruptly. “Is this your respect for the keepers of the Vow?”

“Ah, sister Shetra, you misunderstand. My respect for the Bloodguard is unbounded. How could I feel otherwise about men sworn beyond any human oath to keep me alive? Now if they were to promise me good food, I would be totally in their debt. But surely you see where we stand. The High Lord has given this mission into their hands. If the peril we ride to meet so blithely forces them to the choice, the Bloodguard will pursue the mission rather than defend us.”

For a moment, Lord Shetra fixed Hyrim with a hard glance like an expression of contempt. But when she spoke, her voice did not impugn him. “Lord Hyrim, you are not blithe. You believe that the survival of the Giants rides on this mission, and you seek to conceal your fear for them.”

“Melenkurion Skyweir!” Hyrim growled to keep himself from laughing. “I seek only to preserve my fine and hard-won flesh from inconsiderate assault. It would become you to share such a worthy desire.”

“Peace, Lord. I have no heart for jesting,” sighed

Shetra, and turned away to resume her study of Revelstone.

Lord Hyrim considered her in silence briefly, then said to Korik, “Well, she has less body to preserve than I have. It may be that fine spirit is reserved for neglected flesh. I must speak of this with the Giants if we reach them.”

“We are the Bloodguard,” answered Korik flatly. “We will gain Seareach.”

Hyrim glanced up at the night sky, and said in a soft, musing tone, “Summon or succour. Would that there were more of us. The Giants are vast, and if they are in need the need will be vast.”

“They are the Giants. Are they not equal to any need?”

The Lord flashed a look at Korik, but did not reply. Soon he moved to Shetra's side, and said quietly, “Come, sister. The journey calls. The way is long, and if we hope to end we must first begin.”

“Wait!” she cried softly, like the distant scream of a bird.

Hyrim studied her for another moment. Then he came back to Covenant. In a whisper so low that Covenant could hardly hear it, the Lord said, "She desires to see Lord Verement her husband before we go. Theirs is a sad tale, ur-Lord. Their marriage is troubled. Both are proud-Together they made the journey to the Plains of Ra to offer themselves to the Ranyhyn. And the Ranyhyn-ah, the Ranyhyn chose her, but refused him.

“Well, they choose in their own way, and even the Ramen cannot explain them. But it has made a difference between these two. Brother Verement is a worthy man-yet now he has reason to believe himself unworthy. And sister Shetra can neither accept nor deny his self-judgment. And now this mission-Verement should rightly go — in my place, but the mission requires the speed and endurance of the Ranyhyn. For her sake alone, I would wish that you might go in her stead.”

“I don't ride Ranyhyn,” Covenant replied unsteadily.

“They would come to your call,” answered Hyrim. Again Covenant could not respond; he feared that this was true. The Ranyhyn had pledged themselves to him, and he had not released them. But he could not ride one of the great horses. They had reared to him out of fear and loathing. Again he had nothing to offer Hyrim but the look of his silent indecision.

Moments later, he heard movement in the throat of the Keep behind him. Turning, he saw two Lords striding out toward.the courtyard-High Lord Elena and a man he had not met.

Elena's arrival made him quail; at once, the air seemed to be full of wings, vulturine implications. But the man at her side also compelled his attention. He knew immediately that this was Lord Verement. The man resembled Shetra too much to be anyone else. He had the same short stiff hair, the same hawklike features, the same bitter taste in his mouth. He moved toward her as if he meant to throw himself at her.

But he stopped ten feet away. His eyes winced away from her sharp gaze; he could not bring himself to look at her directly. In a-low voice, he said, “Will you go?”

“You know that I must.”

They fell silent. Heedless of the fact that they were being observed, they stood apart from each other. Some test of will that needed no utterance hung between them. For a time, they remained still, as if refusing to make any gestures which might be interpreted as compromise or abdication.

“He did not wish to come,” Hyrim whispered to Covenant, “but the High Lord brought him. Hs is ashamed.”

Then Lord Verement moved. Abruptly, he tossed his staff upright toward Shetra. She caught it, and threw her own staff to him. He caught it in turn. “Stay well, wife,” he said bleakly.

“Stay well, husband,” she replied.

“Nothing will be well for me until you return.”

“And for me also, my husband,” she breathed intensely.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and hastened back into Revelstone.

For a moment, she watched him go. Then she turned also, moved stiffly out of the courtyard into the tunnel. Korik and the other Bloodguard followed her. Shortly, Covenant was left alone with Hyrim and Elena.

“Well, Hyrim,” the High Lord said gently, “your ordeal must begin. I regret that it will be so arduous for you.”

“High Lord-” Hyrim began.

“But you are capable of it,” she went on. “You have not begun to take the measure of your true strength.”

“High Lord,” Hyrim said, “I have asked ur-Lord Covenant to accompany us.”

She stiffened. Covenant felt a surge of tension radiate from her; she seemed suddenly to emanate a palpable tightness. “Lord Hyrim,” she said in a low voice, “you tread dangerous ground.” Her tone was hard, but Covenant could hear that she was not warning Hyrim, threatening him. She respected what he had done. And she was afraid.

Then she turned to Covenant. Carefully, as if she feared to express her own acute desire, she asked, “Will you go?”

The light from Revelstone was at her back, and he could not see her face. He was glad of this; he did not want to know whether or not her strange gaze was focused on him. He tried to answer her, but for a moment his throat was so dry that he could not make a sound.

“No,” he said at last. “No.” For Hyrim's sake, he made an effort to tell the truth. “There's nothing I can do for them.” But as he said it, he knew that that was not the whole truth. He refused to go because Elena daughter of Lena wanted him to stay.

Her relief was as tangible in the gloom as her tension had been. “Very well, ur-Lord.” For a long moment, she and Hyrim faced each other, and Covenant sensed the current of their silent communication, their mental melding. Then Hyrim stepped close to her and kissed her on the forehead. She hugged him, released him. He bowed to Covenant, and walked away into the tunnel.

In turn, she moved away from Covenant, entered the tower through one of the small doors beside the mouth of the tunnel. Covenant was left alone. He breathed deeply, trying to steady himself as if he had just come through an interrogation. Despite the coolness of the dawn, he was sweating. For a moment, he remained in the courtyard, uncertain of what to do. But then he heard whistling from outside the Keep — shrill piercing cries that echoed off the wall of Revelstone. Korik's mission was calling the Ranyhyn.

At once, Covenant hurried into the tunnel.

Outside the shadowed court, the sky was lighter. In the east, the first rim of the sun had broken the horizon. Morning streamed westward, and in it fifteen Bloodguard and two Lords raised their call again. And again. While the echoes of the third cry faded, the air filled with the thunder of mighty hooves.

For a long moment, the earth rumbled to the beat of the Ranyhyn, and the sir pulsed deeply. Then a shadow swept up through the foothills. Seventeen strong, clean-limbed horses came surging and proud to Revelstone. Their white forehead stars looked like froth on a wave as they galloped toward the riders they had chosen to serve. With keen whinnying and the flash of hooves, they slowed their pace.

In response, the Bloodguard and the two Lords bowed, and Korik shouted, “Hail, Ranyhyn! Land-riders and proud-bearers! Sun-flesh and sky-mane, we are glad that you have heard our call. Evil and war are upon the Land! Peril and fatigue await the foes of Fangthane. Will you bear us?”

The great horses nodded and nickered as they came forward the last few steps to nuzzle their riders, urging them to mount. Instantly, all the Bloodguard leaped onto the backs of their Ranyhyn. They used no saddles or reins; the Ranyhyn bore their riders willingly, and replied to the pressure of a knee or the touch of a hand-even to the command of a thought. The same strange power of hearing which made it possible for them to answer their riders at once, anywhere in the Land-allowed them to sense the call tens or scores of days before it was actually uttered, and to run from the Plains of Ra to answer as if mere moments, not three or four hundred leagues, separated the southeast corner of the Land from any other region-also enabled them to act as one with their riders, a perfect meeting of mind and bone.

The Lords Shetra and Hyrim mounted more slowly, and Covenant watched them with a thickness in his throat, as if they were accepting a challenge which rightly belonged to him. Foamfollower, please-he thought. Please-But he could not articulate the words, forgive me.

Then he heard a shout behind and above him. Turning back toward Revelstone, he saw a small, slim figure standing with arms raised atop the watchtower — the High Lord. As the mounted company swung around to face her, she flourished the Staff of Law, drew from its tip an intense blue blaze that flared and coruscated against the deep sky-a paean of power which in her hands burned with a core of interfused blue and white turning to purest azure along the flame. Three times she waved the Staff, and its blaze was so bright that its path seemed to linger against the heavens. Then she cried, “Hail!” and thrust the Staff upward. For an instant the whole length of it flashed, so that an immense incandescent burst of Lords-fire sprang toward the sky. For that instant, she cast so much light over the feet of Revelstone that the dawn itself was effaced-as if to show the assembled company that she was strong enough to erase the fate written in the morning.

The Lords answered, wielding their own power and returning the vibrant cry, “Hail!” And the Bloodguard shouted together as one, “Fist and faith! Hail, High Lord!”

For a moment, all the staffs were upraised in fire. Then all the Lords silenced their flames. On that signal, the company of the mission wheeled in a smooth turn and galloped away into the sunrise.

Eight: “Lord Kevin's Lament”

THE departure of the mission-and his meeting with High Lord Elena the previous evening-left Covenant deeply disturbed. He seemed to be losing what little independence or authenticity he possessed. Instead of determining for himself what his position should be, and then acting according to that standard, he was allowing himself to be swayed, seduced even more fundamentally than he had been during his first experience with the Land. Already, he had acknowledged Elena's claim on him, and only that claim had prevented him from acknowledging the Giants as well.

He could not go on in this fashion. If he did, he would soon come to resemble Hile Troy-a man so overwhelmed by the power, of sight that he could not perceive the blindness of his desire to assume responsibility for the Land. That would be suicide for a leper. If he failed, he would die. And if he succeeded, he would never again be able to bear the numbness of his real life, his leprosy. He knew lepers who had died that way, but for them the death was never quick, never clean. Their ends lay beyond a fetid ugliness so abominable that he felt nauseated whenever he remembered that such putrefaction existed.

And that was not the only argument. This seduction of responsibility was Foul's doing. It was the means by which Lord Foul attempted to ensure the destruction of the Land. When inadequate men assumed huge burdens, the outcome could only serve Despite. Covenant had no doubt that Troy was inadequate. Had he not been summoned to the Land by Atiaran in her despair? And as for himself-he, Thomas Covenant, was as incapable of power as if such a thing did not exist. For him it could not. If he pretended otherwise, then the whole Land would become just another leper in Lord Foul's hands.

By the time he reached his rooms, he knew that he would have to do something, take some action to establish the terms on which he had to stand. He would have to find or make some discrepancy, some incontrovertible proof that the Land was a delusion. He could not trust his emotions; he needed logic, an argument as inescapable as the law of leprosy.

He paced the suite for a time as if he were searching the stone floor for an answer. Then, on an impulse, he jerked open the door and looked out into the hallway. Bannor was there, standing watch as imperturbably as if the meaning of his life were beyond question. Stiffly, Covenant asked him into the sitting room.

When Bannor stood before him, Covenant reviewed quickly what he knew about the Bloodguard. They came from a race, the Haruchai, who lived high in the Westron Mountains beyond Trothgard and the Land. They were a warlike and prolific people, so it was perhaps inevitable that at some time in their history they would send an army east into the Land. This they had done during the early years of Kevin's High Lordship. On foot and weaponless-the Haruchai did not use weapons, just as they did not use lore; they relied wholly on their own physical competence-they had marched to Revelstone and challenged the Council of Lords.

But Kevin had refused to fight. Instead, he had persuaded the Haruchai to friendship.

In return, they had gone far beyond his intent. Apparently, the Ranyhyn, and the Giants, and Revelstone itself-as mountain dwellers, the Haruchai had an intense love of stone and bounty had moved them more deeply than anything in their history. To answer Kevin's friendship, they had sworn a Vow of service to the Lords; and something extravagant in their commitment or language had invoked the Earth power, binding them to their Vow in defiance of time and death and choice. Five hundred of their army had become the Bloodguard. The rest had returned home.

Now there were still nearly five hundred. For every Bloodguard who died in battle was sent on his Ranyhyn up through Guards Gap into the Westron Mountains, and another Haruchai came to take his place. Only those whose bodies could not be recovered, such as Tuvor, the former First Mark, were not replaced.

Thus the great anomaly of the Bloodguard's history was the fact that they had survived the Ritual of Desecration intact even though Kevin and his Council and all his works had been destroyed. They had trusted him. When he had ordered them all into the mountains without explaining his intent, they had obeyed. But afterward they had seen reason to doubt that their service was truly faithful. They had sworn the Vow; they should have died with Kevin in Kiril Threndor under Mount Thunder-or prevented him from meeting Lord Foul there in his despair, prevented him from uttering the Ritual which brought the age of the Old Lords to its destruction. They were faithful to an extreme that defied their own mortality, and yet they had failed in their promise to preserve the Lords at any cost to themselves.

Covenant wanted to ask Bannor what would happen to the Bloodguard if they ever came to believe that their extravagant fidelity was false, that in their Vow they had betrayed both Kevin and themselves. But he could not put such a question into words. Bannor deserved better treatment than that from him. And Bannor, too, had lost his wife-She had been dead for two thousand years.

Instead, Covenant concentrated on his search for a discrepancy.

But he soon knew he would not find one by questioning Bannor. In his flat, alien voice, the Bloodguard gave brief answers that told Covenant what he both wanted and did not want to hear concerning the survivors of the Quest for the Staff of Law. He had already learned what had happened to Foamfollower and Lord Mhoram. Now Bannor told him that High Lord Prothall, who had led the Quest, had resigned his Lordship even before his company had returned to Revelstone. He had not been able to forget that the old Hearthrall Birinair had died in his place. And he had felt that in regaining the Staff he had fulfilled his fate, done all that was in him. He had committed the Staff and the Second Ward to Lord Mhoram's care, and had ridden away to his home in the Northrop Climbs. The inhabitants of Lord's Keep never saw him again.

So upon Mhoram's return Osondrea had assumed the High Lordship. Until her death, she had used her power to rebuild the Council, expand the Wayward, and grow Revelwood, the new home of the Loresraat.

After returning to Revelstone, Quaan-the Warhaft of the Eoman that had accompanied Prothall and Mhoram-had also tried to resign. He had been ashamed to bring only half of his warriors back alive. But High Lord Osondrea, knowing his worth, had refused to release him, and soon he had returned to his duties. Now he was the Hiltmark of the Wayward, Hile Troy's second-in-command. Though his hair was white and thin-though his gaze seemed rubbed smooth by age and use-still he was the same strong, honest man he had always been. The Lords respected him. In Troy's absence they would willingly have trusted Quaan to lead the Wayward.

Covenant sighed sourly, and let Bannor go. Such information did not meet his need. Clearly, he was not going to find any easy solutions to his dilemma. If he wanted proof of delusion, he would have to make it for himself.

He faced the prospect with trepidation. Anything he might do would take a long time to bear fruit. It would not become proof, brookless and unblinkable, until his delusion ended-until he had returned to his real life. In the meantime, it would do little to sustain him. But he had no choice; his need was urgent.

He had available three easy ways to create a definitive discontinuity: he could destroy his clothes, throw away his penknife-the only thing he had in his pockets-or grow a beard. Then, when he awakened, and found himself clothed, or still possessed of his penknife, or clean-shaven, he would have his proof.

The obvious discrepancy of his healed forehead he did not trust. Past experience made him fear that he would be reinjured shortly before this delusion ended. But he could not bring himself to act on his first two alternatives. The thought of destroying his tough, familiar apparel made him feel too vulnerable, and the expedient of discarding his penknife was too uncertain. Cursing at the way his plight forced him to abandon all the strict habits upon which his survival depended, he decided to give up shaving.

When at last he summoned the courage to leave his rooms and go into the Keep in search of breakfast, he brandished the stubble on his cheeks as if it were a declaration of defiance.

Bannor guided him to one of the great refectories of Revelstone, then left him alone to eat. But before he was done, the Bloodguard came striding back to his table. There was an extra alertness in the spring of Bannor's steps-a tightness that looked oddly like excitement. But when he addressed Covenant, his flat, shrouded eyes expressed nothing, and the repressed lilt of his voice was as inflectionless as ever.

“Ur-Lord, the Council asks that you come to the Close. A stranger has entered Revelstone. The Lords will soon meet with him.”

Because of Bannor's heightened alertness, Covenant asked cautiously, “What kind of stranger?”

“Ur-Lord?”

“Is it-is it someone like me? or Troy?”

In his confusion, Covenant did not immediately perceive the certitude of Bannor's reply. But as he followed the Bloodguard out of the refectory and down through Revelstone, he began to hear something extra in the denial, something more than Bannor's usual confidence. That No resembled Bannor's stride; it was tenser in some way. Covenant could not fathom it. As they descended a broad, curved stair through several levels of the Keep, he forced himself to ask, “What's so urgent about this stranger? What do you know about him?”

Bannor ignored the question.

When they reached the Close, they found that High Lord Elena, Lord Verement, and four other Lords had already preceded them. The High Lord was at her place at the head of the curved table, and the Staff of Law lay on the stone before her. To her right sat two men, then two women. Verement was on her left beyond two empty seats. Eight Bloodguard sat behind them in the first row of the gallery, but the rest of the Close was empty. Only First Mark Morin and the Hearthralls Tohrm and Borillar occupied their positions in back of the High Lord.

An expectant hush hung over the chamber. For an instant, Covenant half expected Elena to announce the start of the war.

Bannor guided him to a seat at the Lords' table one place down from Lord Verement. The Unbeliever settled himself in the stone chair, rubbing the stubble of his new beard with one hand as if he expected the Council to know what it meant. The eyes of the Lords were on him, and their gaze made him uncomfortable. He felt strangely ashamed of the fact that his fingertips were alive to the touch of his whiskers.

“Ur-Lord Covenant,” the High Lord said after a moment, “while we await Lord Mhoram and Warmark Troy, we should make introduction. We have been remiss in our hospitality. Let me present to yon those of the Council whom you do not know.”

Covenant nodded, glad of anything that would turn her disturbing eyes away from him, and she began on her left. “Here is Lord Verement Shetra-mate, whom you have seen.” Verement glowered at his hands, did not glance at Covenant.

Elena turned to her right. The man next to her was tall and broad; he had a wide forehead, a watchful face draped with a warm blond beard, and an expression of habitual gentleness. “Here is Lord Callindrill Faer-mate. Faer his wife is a rare master of the ancient suru-pa-maerl craft.” Lord Callindrill smiled half shyly at Covenant, and bowed his head.

“At his side,” the High Lord went on, “are the Lords Trevor and Loerya.” Lord Trevor was a thin man with an air of uncertainty, as if he were not sure that he belonged at the Lords' table; but Lord Loerya his wife looked solid and matronly, conscious that she contained power. “They have three daughters who gladden all our hearts.” Both Lords replied with smiles, but where his was both surprised and proud, hers was calm, confident.

Elena concluded, “Beyond them is Lord Amatin daughter of Matin. Only a year ago she passed the tests of the Sword and Staff at the Loresraat, and joined the Council. Now her work is with the schools of Revelstone-the teaching of the children.” In her turn, Lord Amatin bowed gravely. She was slight, serious, and hazel-eyed, and she watched Covenant as if she were studying him.

After a pause, the High Lord began the ritual ceremonies of welcoming the Unbeliever to Lord's Keep, but she stopped short when Lord Mhoram entered the Close. He came through one of the private doors behind the Lords' table. There was weariness in his step and febrile concentration in his eyes, as if he had spent all night wrestling with darkness. In his fatigue, he needed his staff to hold himself steady as he took his seat at Elena's left.

All the Lords watched him as he sat there, breathing vacantly, and a wave of support flowed from their minds to his. Slowly, their silent help strengthened him. The hot glitter faded from his gaze, and he began to see the faces around him.

“Have you met success?” Elena asked softly. “Can you withdraw the krill?”

“No.” Mhoram's lips formed the word, but he made no sound.

“Dear Mhoram,” she sighed, “you must take greater care of yourself. The Despiser marches against us. We will need all your strength for the coming war.”

Through his weariness, Mhoram smiled his crooked, humane smile. But he did not speak.

Before Covenant could muster the resolve to ask Mhoram what he hoped to accomplish with the krill, the main doors of the Close opened, and Warmark Troy strode down the stairs to the table. Hiltmark Quaan came behind him. While Troy went to sit opposite Covenant, Quaan made his way to join Morin,

Tohrm, and Borillar. Apparently, Troy and Quaan had just come from the Wayward. They had not taken the time to set aside their swords, and their scabbards clashed dully against the stone as they seated themselves.

As soon as they were in their places, High Lord Elena began. She spoke softly, but her clear voice carried perfectly throughout the Close. “We are gathered thus without forewarning because a stranger has come to us. Growl, the stranger is in your care. Tell us of him.”

Growl was one of the Bloodguard. He arose from his seat near the broad stairs of the chamber, and faced the High Lord impassively to make his report. “He passed us. A short time ago, he appeared at the gate of Revelstone. No scout or sentry saw his approach. He asked if the Lords were within. When he was answered, he replied that the High Lord wished to question him. He is not as other men. But he bears no weapon, and intends no ill. We chose to admit him. He awaits you.”

In a sharp voice like the barking of a hawk, Lord Verement asked, “Why did the scouts and sentries fail?”

“The stranger was hidden from our eyes,” Growl replied levelly. “Our watch did not falter.” His unfluctuating tone seemed to assert that the alertness of the Bloodguard was beyond question.

“That is well,” said Verement. “Perhaps one day the whole army of the Despiser will appear unnoticed at our gates, and we will still be sleeping when Revelstone falls.”

He was about to say more, but Elena interposed firmly, “Bring the stranger now.”

As the Bloodguard at the top of the stairs swung open the high wooden doors, Amatin asked the High Lord, “Does this stranger come at your request?”

“No. But I do now wish to question him.”

Covenant watched as two more Bloodguard came into the Close with the stranger between them. He was slim, simply clad in a cream-colored robe, and his movements were light, buoyant. Though he was nearly as tall as Covenant, he seemed hardly old enough to have his full growth. There was a sense of boyish laughter in the way his curly hair bounced as he came down the steps, as if he were amused by the precautions taken against him. But Covenant was not amused. With the new dimension of his sight, he could see why Growl had said that the boy was “not as other men.” Within his young, fresh flesh were bones that seemed to radiate oldness-not age-they were not weak or infirm-but rather antiquity. His skeleton carried this oldness, this aura of time, as if he were merely a vessel for it. He existed for it rather than in spite of it. The sight baffled Covenant's perceptions, made his eyes ache with conflicting impressions of dread and glory as he strained to comprehend.

When the boy reached the floor of the Close, he stepped near to the graveling pit, and made a cheerful obeisance. In a high, young voice, he exclaimed, “Hail, High Lord!”

Elena stood and replied gravely, “Stranger, be welcome in the Land-welcome and true. We are the Lords of Revelstone, and I am Elena daughter of Lena, High Lord by the choice of the Council, and holder of the Staff of Law. How may we honour you?”

“Courtesy is like a drink at a mountain stream. I am honoured already.”

“Then will you honour us in turn with your name?”

With a laughing glance, the boy said, “It may well come to pass that I will tell you who I am.”

“Do not game with us,” Verement cut in. “What is your name?”

“Among those who do not know me, I am named Amok.”

Elena controlled Verement with a swift look, then said to the youth, “And how are you named among those who know you?”

“Those who know me have no need of my name.”

“Stranger, we do not know you” An edge came into her quiet voice. “These are times of great peril in the Land, and we can spend neither time nor delicacy with you. We require to know who you are.”

“Ah, then I fear I cannot help you,” replied Amok with an impervious gaiety in his eyes.

For a moment, the Lords met his gaze with stiff silence. Verement's thin lips whitened; Callindrill frowned thoughtfully; and Elena faced the boy with low anger flushing her cheeks, though her eyes did not lose their odd, dislocated focus. Then Lord Amatin straightened her shoulders and said, “Amok, where is your home? Who are your parents? What is your past?”

Lightly, Amok turned and gave her an unexpected bow. “My home is Revelstone. I have no parents. And my past is both wide and narrow, for I have wandered everywhere, waiting.”

A surge ran through the Council, but no one interrupted Amatin. Studying the boy, she said, “Your home is Revelstone? How can that be? We have no knowledge of you.”

“Lord, I have been away. I have feasted with the Elohim, and ridden Sandgorgons. I have danced with the Dancers of the Sea, and teased brave Kelenbhrabanal in his grave, and traded apothegms with the Grey Desert. I have waited.”

Several of the Lords stirred, and a gleam came into Loerya's eyes, as if she recognized something potent in Amok's words. They all watched him closely as Amatin said, “Yet everything that lives has ancestry, forebearers of its own kind. Amok, what of your parentage?”

“Do I live?”

“It appears not,” Verement growled. “Nothing mortal would try our patience so.”

“Peace, Verement,” said Loerya. “There is grave import here.” Without taking her eyes off Amok, she asked, “Are you alive?”

“Perhaps. While I have purpose, I move and speak. My eyes behold. Is this life?”

His answer confused Lord Amatin. Thinly, as if her uncertainty pained her, she said, “Amok, who made your”

Without hesitation, Amok replied, "High Lord

Kevin son of Loric son of Damelon son of Berek Heartthew the Lord-Fatherer."

A silent clap of surprise echoed in the Close. Around the table, the Lords gaped in astonishment. Then Verement smacked the stone with the flat of his hand, and barked, "By the Seven! This whelp mocks us.

“I think not,” answered Elena.

Lord Mhoram nodded wearily, and sighed his agreement. “Our ignorance mocks us.”

Quickly, Trevor asked, “Mhoram, do you know Amok? Have you seen him?”

Lord Loerya seconded the question, but before Mhoram could gather his strength to respond, Lord Callindrill leaned forward to ask, “Amok, why were you made? What purpose do you serve?”

“I wait,” said the boy. “And I answer.”

Callindrill accepted this with a glum nod, as if it proved an unfortunate point, and said nothing more. After a pause, the High Lord said to Amok, “You bear knowledge, and release it in response to the proper questions. Have I understood you aright?”

In answer, Amok bowed, shaking his head so that his gay hair danced like laughter about his head.

“What knowledge is this?” she inquired.

“Whatever knowledge you can ask for, and receive answer.”

At this, Elena glanced ruefully around the table. “Well, that at least was not the proper question,” she sighed. “I think we will need to know Amok's knowledge before we can ask the proper questions:”

Mhoram looked at her and nodded.

“Excellent!” Verement's retort was full of suppressed ferocity. “So ignorance increases ignorance, and knowledge makes itself unnecessary.”

Covenant felt the force of Verement's sarcasm. But Lord Amatin ignored it. Instead, she asked the youth, “Why have you come to us now?”

“I felt the sign of readiness. The krill of Loric came to life. That is the appointed word. I answer as I was made to do.”

As he mentioned the krill, Amok's inner cradled glory and dread seemed to become more visible. The sight gave Covenant a pang. Is this my fault, too? he groaned. What have I gotten myself into now? But the glimpse was mercifully brief; Amok's boyish good humour soon veiled it again.

When it was past, Lord Mhoram climbed slowly to his feet, supporting himself on his staff like an old man. Standing beside the High Lord as if he were speaking for her, he said, “Then you have-Amok, hear me. I am seer and oracle for this Council. I speak words of vision. I have not seen you. You have come too soon. We did not give life to the krill. That was not our doing. We lack the lore for such work.”

Amok's face became suddenly grave, almost frightened, showing for the first time some of the antiquity of his skull. “Lack the lore? Then I have erred. I have misserved my purpose. I must depart; I will do great harm else.”

Quickly, he turned, slipped with deceptive speed between the Bloodguard, and darted up the stairs.

When he was halfway to the doors, everyone in the Close lost sight of him. He vanished as if they had all taken their eyes off him for an instant, allowing him to hide. The Lords jumped to their feet in amazement. On the stairs, the pursuing Bloodguard halted, looked rapidly about them, and gave up the chase.

“Swiftly!” Elena commanded. “Search for him! Find him!”

“What is the need?” Crowl replied flatly. “He is gone.”

“That I see! But where has he gone? Perhaps he is still in Revelstone.”

But Crowl only repeated, “He is gone.” Something in his certitude reminded Covenant of Bannor's subdued, unusual excitement. Are they in this together? he asked himself. My purpose? The words repeated dimly in his mind. My purpose?

Through his mystification, he almost did not hear Troy whisper, “I thought-for a minute-I thought I saw him.”

High Lord Elena paid no attention to the Warmark. The attitude of the Bloodguard seemed to baffle her, and she sat down to consider the situation. Slowly, she spread about her the melding of the Council, one by one bringing the minds of the other Lords into communion with her own. Callindrill shut his eyes, letting a look of peace spread over his face, and Trevor and Loerya held hands. Verement shook his head two or three times, then acquiesced when Mhoram touched him gently on the shoulder.

When they all were woven together, the High Lord said, “Each of us must study this matter. War is near at hand, and we must not be taken unaware by such mysteries. But to you, Lord Amatin, I give the chief study of Amok and his secret knowledge. If it can be done, we must seek him out and learn his answers.”

Lord Amatin nodded with determination in her small face.

Then, like an unclasping of mental hands, the melding ended, and an intensity which Covenant could sense but not join faded from the air. In silence, the Lords took up their staffs, and began to leave.

“Is that it?” Covenant muttered in surprise. “Is that all you're going to do?”

“Watch it, Covenant,” Troy warned softly.

Covenant shot a glare at the Warmark, but his black sunglasses seemed to make him impervious. Covenant turned toward the High Lord. “Is that all?” he insisted. “Don't you even want to know what's going on here?”

Elena faced him levelly. “Do you know?”

“No. Of course not.” He wanted to add, to protest, But Bannor does. But that was something else he could not say. He had no right to make the Bloodguard responsible. Stiffly, he remained silent.

“Then do not be too quick to judge,” Elena replied. “There is much here that requires explanation, and we must seek answers in our own way if we hope to be prepared.”

Prepared for what? he wanted to ask. But he lacked the resolution to challenge the High Lord; he was afraid of her eyes. To escape the situation, he brushed past Bannor and horned out of the Close ahead of the Lords and Troy.

But back in his rooms he found no relief for his frustration. And in the days that followed, nothing happened to give him any relief. Elena, Mhoram, and Troy were as absent from his life as if they were deliberately avoiding him. Bannor answered his aimless questions courteously, curtly, but the answers shed no light. His beard grew until it was thick and full, and made him look to himself like an unravelled fanatic; but it proved nothing, solved nothing. The full of the moon came and went, but the war did not begin; there arrived no word from the scouts, no signs, no insights. Around him, Revelstone palpably trembled in the clench of its readiness; everywhere he went, he heard whispers of tension, haste, urgency, but no action was taken. Nothing. He roamed for leagues in Lord's Keep as if he were treading a maze. He drank inordinate quantities of springwine, and slept the sleep of the dead as if he hoped that he would never be resurrected. At times he was even reduced to standing on the northern battlements of the city to watch Troy and Quaan drill the Warward. But nothing happened.

His only oasis in this static and frustrated wilderland was given to him by Lord Callindrill and his wife, Faer. One day, Callindrill took the Unbeliever to his private quarters beyond the floor-lit courtyard, and there Faer provided him with a meal which almost made him forget his plight. She was a hale Stonedownor woman with a true gift for hospitality. Perhaps he would have been able to forget-but she studied the old suru-pa-maerl craft, as Lena had done, and that evoked too many painful memories in him. He did not visit long with Faer and her husband.

Yet before he left, Callindrill had explained to him some of the oddness of his current position in Revelstone. The High Lord had summoned him, Callindrill said, when the Council had agreed that the war could begin at any moment, when any further postponement of the call might prove fatal. But Warmark Troy's battle plans could not be launched until he knew which of two possible assault routes Lord Foul's army would take. Until the Warmark received clear word from his scouts, he could not afford to commit his Eowards. If he risked a guess, and guessed wrong, disaster would result. So Covenant had been urgently summoned, and yet now was left to himself, with no demands upon him.

In addition, the Lord went on, there was another reason why he had been summoned at a time which now appeared to have been premature. Warmark Troy had argued urgently for the summons. This surprised Covenant until Callindrill explained Troy's reasoning. The Warmark had believed that Lord Foul would be able to detect the summons. So by means of Covenant's call Troy had hoped to put pressure on the Despiser, force him, because of his fear of the wild magic, to launch his attack before he was ready. Time favoured Lord Foul because his war resources far surpassed those of the Council, and if he prepared long enough he might well field an army that no Warward could defeat. Troy hoped that the ploy of summoning Covenant would make the Despiser cut his preparations short.

Lastly, Callindrill explained in a gentle voice, High Lord Elena and Lord Mhoram were in fact evading the Unbeliever. Covenant had not asked that question, but Callindrill seemed to divine some of the causes of his frustration. Elena and Mhoram, each in their separate ways, felt so involved in Covenant's dilemma that they stayed away from him in order to avoid aggravating his distress. They sensed, said Callindrill, that he found their personal appeals more painful than any other. The possibility that he might go to Seareach had jolted Elena. And Mhoram was consumed by his work on the krill. Until the war bereft them of choice, they refrained as much as possible from imposing upon him.

Well, Troy warned me, Covenant muttered to himself as he left Callindrill and Faer. He said that they're scrupulous. After a moment, he added sourly, I would be better off if all these people would stop trying to do me favours.

Yet he was grateful to Faer and her husband. Their companionly gestures helped him to get through the next few days, helped him to keep the vertiginous darkness at bay. He felt that he was rotting inside, but he was not going mad.

But he knew that he could not stand it much longer. The ambience of Revelstone was as tight as a string about to snap. Pressure was building inside him, rising toward desperation. When Bannor knocked at his door one afternoon, he was so startled that he almost cried out.

However, Bannor had not come to announce the start of the war. In his flat voice, he asked Covenant if the Unbeliever would like to go hear a song.

A song, he echoed numbly. For a moment, he was too confused to respond. He had not expected such a question, certainly not from the Bloodguard. But then he shrugged jerkily. “Why not?” He did not stop to ask what had prompted Bannor's unusual initiative. With a scowl, he followed the Bloodguard out of his suite.

Bannor took him up through the levels of the Keep until they were higher in the mountain than he had ever been before. Then the wide passage they followed rounded a corner, and came unexpectedly into open sunlight. They entered a broad, roofless amphitheatre. Rows of stone benches curved downward to form a bowl around a flat centre stage; and behind the topmost row the stone wall rose straight for twenty or thirty feet, ending in the flat of the plateau, where the mountain met the sky. The afternoon sun shone into the amphitheatre, drenching the dull white stone of the stage and benches and wall with warmth and light.

The seats were starting to fill when Bannor and Covenant arrived. People from all the occupations of the Keep, including farmers and cooks and warriors, and the Lords Trevor and Loerya with their daughters, came through several openings in the wall to take seats around the bowl. But the Bloodguard formed the largest single group. Covenant estimated roughly that there were a hundred of them on the benches. This vaguely surprised him. He had never seen more than a score of the Haruchai in one place before. After looking around for a while, he asked Bannor, “What song is this, anyway?”

“Lord Kevin's Lament,” Bannor replied dispassionately.

Then Covenant felt that he understood. Kevin, he nodded to himself. Of course the Bloodguard wanted to hear this song. How could they be less than keenly interested in anything which might help them to comprehend Kevin Landwaster?

For it was Kevin who had summoned Lord Foul to Kiril Threndor to utter the Ritual of Desecration. The legends said that when Kevin had seen that he could not defeat the Despiser, his heart had turned black with despair. He had loved the Land too intensely to let it fall to Lord Foul. And yet he had failed; he could not preserve it. Torn by his impossible dilemma, he had been driven to dare that Ritual. He had known that the unleashing of that fell power would destroy the Lords and all their works, and ravage the Land from end to end, make it barren for generations. He had known that he would die. But he had hoped that Lord Foul would also die, that when at last life returned to the Land it would be life free of Despite. He chose to take that risk rather than permit Lord Foul's victory. Thus he dared the Despiser to join him in Kiril Threndor. He and Lord Foul spoke the Ritual, and High Lord Kevin Landwaster destroyed the Land which he loved.

And Lord Foul had not died. He had been reduced for a time, but he had survived, preserved by the law of Time which imprisoned him upon the Earth so the legends said. So now all the Land and the new Lords lay under the consequences of Kevin's despair.

It was not surprising that the Bloodguard wanted to hear this song-or that Bannor had asked Covenant to come hear it also.

As he mused, Covenant caught a glimpse of blue from across the amphitheatre. Looking up, he saw High Lord Elena standing near one of the entrances. She, too, wanted to hear this song.

With her was Warmark Troy.

Covenant felt an urge to go join them, but before he could make up his mind to move, the singer entered the amphitheatre. She was a tall, resplendent woman, simply clad in a crimson robe, with golden hair that flew like sparks about her head. As she moved down the steps to the stage, her audience rose to its feet and silently gave her the salute of welcome. She did not return it. Her face bore a look of concentration, as if she were already feeling her song.

When she reached the stage, she did not speak, said nothing to introduce or explain or identify her song. Instead, she took her stance in the centre of the stage, composed herself for a moment as the song came over her, then lifted her face to the sun and opened her throat.

At first, her melody was restrained, arid and angular — only hinting at burned pangs and poignancies.

I stood on the pinnacle of the Earth:

Mount Thunder, its Lions in full flaming mane,

raised its crest no higher

than the horizons that my gaze commanded;

the Ranyhyn,

hooves unfettered since the Age began,

galloped gladly to my will;

iron-thewed Giants

from beyond the sun's birth in the sea

came to me in ships as mighty as castles,

and cleft my castle from the

raw Earth rock

and gave it to me out of pure friendship—

a handmark of allegiance and fealty

in the eternal stone of Time;

the Lords under my Watch laboured

to find and make manifest

the true purpose of the Earth's Creator,

barred from His creation by the very

power of that purpose—

power graven into the flesh and bone of the Land

by the immutable Law of its creation:

how could I stand so,

so much glory and dominion comprehended

by the outstretch of my arms—

stand thus,

eye to eye with the Despiser,

and not be dismayed?

But then the song changed, as if the singer opened inner chambers to give her voice more resonance. In high, arching spans of song, she gave out her threnody — highlighted it and underscored it with so many implied harmonies, so many suggestions of other accompanying voices, that she seemed to have a whole choir within her, using her one throat for utterance.

Where is the Power that protects

beauty from the decay of life?

preserves truth pure of falsehood?

secures fealty from that slow stain of chaos

which corrupts?

How are we so rendered small by Despite?

Why will the very rocks not erupt

for their own cleansing,

or crumble into dust for shame?

Creator!

When You desecrated this temple,

rid Yourself of this contempt by

inflicting it upon the Land,

did You intend

that beauty and truth should pass utterly from the

Earth?

Have You shaped my fate into the Law of life?

Am I effectless?

Must I preside over,

sanction, acknowledge with the bitter face of treachery,

approve the falling of the world?

Her music ached in the air like a wound of song. And as she finished, the people came to their feet with a rush. Together they sang into the fathomless heavens:

Ah, Creator!

Timelord and Landsire!

Did You intend

that beauty and truth should pass utterly

from the Earth?

Bannor stood, though he did not join the song. But Covenant kept his seat, feeling small and useless beside the community of Revelstone. Their emotion climaxed in the refrain, expending sharp grief and then filling the amphitheatre with a wash of peace which cleansed and healed the song's despair, as if the united power of the singing alone were answer enough to Kevin's outcry. By making music out of despair, the people resisted it. But Covenant felt otherwise. He was beginning to understand the danger that threatened the Land.

So he was still sitting, gripping his beard and staring blankly before him, when the people filed out of the amphitheatre, left him alone with the hot brightness of the sun. He remained there, muttering grimly to himself, until he became aware that Hile Troy had come over to him.

When he looked up, the Warmark said, “I didn't expect to see you here.”

Gruffly, Covenant responded, “I didn't expect to see you.” But he was only obliquely thinking about Troy. He was still trying to grapple with Kevin.

As if he could hear Covenant's thoughts, the Warmark said, “It all comes back to Kevin. He's the one who made the Seven Wards. He's the one who inspired the Bloodguard. He's the one who did the Ritual of Desecration. And it wasn't necessary-or it wasn't inevitable. He wouldn't have been driven that far if he hadn't already made his big mistake.”

“His big mistake,” Covenant murmured.

"He admitted Foul to the Council, made him a Lord. He didn't see through Foul's disguise. After that it was too late. By the time Foul declared himself and broke into open war, he'd had time for so much subtle treachery that he was unbeatable.

"In situations like that, I guess most ordinary men kill themselves. But Kevin was no ordinary man-he had too much power for that, even though it seemed useless. He killed the Land instead. All that survived were the people who had time to escape into exile.

"They say that Kevin understood what he'd done just before he died. Foul was laughing at him. He died howling.

“Anyway, that's why the Oath of Peace is so important now. Everyone takes it-it's as fundamental as the Lords' oath of service to the Land. Together they all swear that somehow they'll resist the destructive emotions-like Kevin's despair. They-”

“I know,” Covenant sighed. “I know all about it.” He was remembering Triock, the man who had loved Lena in Mithil Stonedown forty years ago. Triock had wanted to kill Covenant, but Atiaran had prevented him on the strength of the Oath of Peace. “Please don't say any more. I'm having a hard enough time as it is.”

“Covenant,” Troy continued as if he were still on the same subject, “I don't see why you aren't ecstatic about being here. How can the `real' world be any more important than this?”

“It's the only world there is.” Covenant climbed heavily to his feet. “Let's get out of here. This heat is making me giddy.”

Moving slowly, they left the amphitheatre. The air in Revelstone welcomed them back with its cool, dim pleasance, and Covenant breathed it deeply, trying to steady himself.

He wanted to get away from Troy, evade the questions he knew Troy would ask him. But the Warmark had a look of determination. After a few moments, he said, “Listen, Covenant. I'm trying to understand. Since the last time we talked, I've spent half my time trying. Somebody has got to have some idea what to expect from you. But I just don't see it. Back there, you're a leper. Isn't this better?”

Dully, answering as briefly as possible, Covenant said, “It isn't real. I don't believe it.” Half to himself, he added, “Lepers who pay too much attention to their own dreams or whatever don't live very long.”

“Jesus,” Troy muttered. “You make it sound as if leprosy is all there is.” He thought for a moment, then demanded, “How can you be so sure this isn't real?”

"Because life isn't like this. Lepers don't get well. People with no eyes don't suddenly start seeing. Such things don't happen. Somehow, we're being betrayed. Our own-our own needs for something that we don't have-are seducing us into this. It's crazy. Look at you. Come on-think about what happened to you. There you were, trapped between a nine-story fall and a raging fire-blind and helpless and about to die. Is it so strange to think that you cracked up?

“That is,” he went on mordantly, “assuming you exist at all. I've got an idea about you. I must've made you up subconsciously so that I would have someone to argue with. Someone to tell me I'm wrong.”

“Damn it!” Troy cried. Turning swiftly, he snatched up Covenant's right hand and gripped it at eye level between them. With his head thrust defiantly forward, he said intensely, “Look at me. Feel my grip. I'm here. It's a fact. It's real.”

For a moment, Covenant considered Troy's hand. Then he said, “I feel you. And I see you. I even hear you. But that only proves my point. I don't believe it. Now let go of me.”

“Why?!”

Troy's sunglasses loomed at him darkly, but Covenant glared back into them until they turned away. Gradually, the Warmark released the pressure of his grip. Covenant yanked his hand away, and walked on with a quiver in his breathing. After a few strides, he said, "Because I can feel it. And I can't afford it. Now listen to me. Listen hard. I'm going to try to explain this so you can understand.

"Just forget that you know there's no possible way you could have come here. It's impossible-But just forget that for a while. Listen. I'm a leper. Leprosy is not a directly fatal disease, but it can kill indirectly. I can only-any leper can only stay alive by concentrating all the time every minute to keep himself from getting hurt-and to take care of his hurts as soon as they happen. The one thing-Listen to me. The one thing no leper can afford is to let his mind wander. If he wants to stay alive. As soon as he stops concentrating, and starts thinking about how he's going to make a better life for himself, or starts dreaming about how his life was before he got sick, or about what he would do if he only got cured, or even if people simply stopped abhorring lepers“-he threw the words at Troy's head like chunks of stone-”then he is as good as dead.

“This-Land- is suicide to me. It's an escape, and I can't afford even thinking about escapes, much less actually falling into one. Maybe a blind man can stand the risk, but a leper can't. If I give in here, I won't last a month where it really counts. Because I'll have to go back. Am I getting through to you”

“Yes,” Troy said. “Yes. I'm not stupid. But think about it for a minute. If it should happen-if it should somehow be true that the Land is real-then you're denying your only hope. And that's-”

“I know.”

“-that's not all. There's something you're not taking into account. The one thing that doesn't fit this delusion theory of yours is power-your power. White gold. Wild magic. That damn ring of yours changes everything. You're not a victim here. This isn't being done to you. You're responsible.”

“No,” Covenant groaned.

“Wait a minute! You can't just deny this. You're responsible for your dreams, Covenant. Just like anybody else.”

No! Nobody can control dreams. Covenant tried to fill himself with icy confidence, but his heart was chilled by another cold entirely.

Troy pressed his argument. “There's been plenty of evidence that white gold is just exactly what the Lords say it is. How were the defences of the Second Ward broken? How did the Fire-Lions of Mount Thunder get called down to save you? White gold, that's how. You've already got the key to the whole thing.”

“No.” Covenant struggled to give his refusal some force. “No. It isn't like that. What white gold does in the Land has nothing to do with me. It isn't me. I can't touch it, make it work, influence it. It's just another thing that's happened to me. I've got no power. For all I know or can do about it, this wild magic could turn on tomorrow or five seconds from now and blast us all. It could crown Foul king of the universe whether I want it to or not. It has nothing to do with me.”

“Is that a fact?” Troy said sourly. “And since you don't have any power, no one can hold you to blame.”

Troy's tone gave Covenant something on which to focus his anger. “That's right!” he flared. "Let me tell you something. The only person in life who's free at all, ever, is a person who's impotent. Like me. Or what do you think freedom is? Unlimited potential? Unrestricted possibilities? Hellfire! Impotence is freedom. When you're incapable of anything, no one can expect anything from you. Power has its own limit seven ultimate power. Only the impotent are free.

“No!” he snapped to stop Troy's protest. “I'll tell you something else. What you're really asking me to do is learn how to use this wild magic so I can go around butchering the poor, miserable creatures in Foul's army. Well, I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to do any more killing-and certainly not in the name of something that isn't even real!”

“Hooray,” muttered Troy in tight sarcasm. “Sweet Jesus. Whatever happened to people who used to believe in things?”

“They got leprosy and died. Weren't you listening to that song?”

Before Troy could reply, they rounded a corner, and entered an intersection where several halls came together. Bannor stood in the junction as if he were waiting for them. He blocked the hall Covenant had intended to take. “Choose another way,” he said expressionlessly. “Turn aside. Now.”

Troy did not hesitate; he swung away to his right. While he moved, he asked quickly, “Why? What's going on?”

But Covenant did not follow. The crest of his anger, his bone-deep frustration, still held him up. He stopped where he was and glared at the Bloodguard.

“Turn aside,” Bannor repeated. “The High Lord desires that you should not meet.”

From the next hallway, Troy called, “Covenant! Come on!”

For a moment, Covenant maintained his defiance. But Bannor's impervious gaze deflated him. The Bloodguard looked as immune to affront or doubt as a stone wall. Muttering uselessly under his breath, Covenant started after Troy.

But he had delayed too long. Before he was hidden in the next hallway, a man came into the intersection from the passage behind Bannor. He was as tall, thick, and solid as a pillar; his deep chest easily supported his broad massive shoulders and brawny arms. He walked with his head down, so that his heavy, regret beard rested like a burden on his breast; and his face had a look of ruddy strength gone ominously rancid, curdled by some admixture of gall.

Woven into the shoulders of his brown Stonedownor tunic was a pattern of white leaves.

Covenant froze; a spasm of suspense and fear gripped his guts. He recognized the Stonedownor. In the still place at the centre of the spasm, he felt sorrow and remorse for this man whose life he had ruined as if he were incapable of regret.

Striding back into the intersection, Troy said, “I don't understand. Why shouldn't we meet this man? He's one of the rhadhamaerl. Covenant, this is-”

Covenant cut Troy off. “I know him.”

Trell's eyes held Covenant readily, as if after years of pressure they were charged with too much blood. “And I know you, Thomas Covenant.” His voice came out stiffly; it sounded disused, cramped, as if he had kept it fettered for a long time, fearing that it would betray him. “Are you not satisfied? Have you come to do more harm?”

Through a roar of pounding blood in his ears, Covenant heard himself saying for the second time, “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry?” Trell almost choked on the word. “Is that enough? Does it raise the dead?” For a moment, he shuddered as if he were about to break apart. His breath came in deep, hoarse gasps. Then, convulsively, he threw his strong arms wide like a man breaking bonds. Jumping forward, he caught Covenant around the chest, lifted him off the floor. With a fierce snarl, he hugged Covenant, striving to crush his ribs.

Covenant wanted to cry out, howl his pain, but he could make no sound. The vice of Trell's arms drove the air from his lungs, stunned his heart. He felt himself collapsing inwardly, destroying himself with his own pressure.

Dimly, he saw Bannor at Trell's back. Twice Bannor punched at Trell's neck. But the Gravelingas only increased his grip, growling savagely.

Someone, Troy, shouted, “Trell! Trell!”

Bannor turned and stepped away. For one frantic instant, Covenant feared that the Bloodguard was abandoning him. But Bannor only needed space for his next attack. He leaped high in the air; and as he dropped toward Trell, he chopped the Gravelingas across the base of his neck with one elbow. Trell staggered; his grip loosened. Continuing the same motion, Bannor caught Trell under the chin with his other arm. The sharp backward jerk pulled Trell off balance. As he toppled, he lost his hold on Covenant.

Covenant landed heavily on his side, retching for air. Through his dizzy gasps, he heard Troy shouting, heard the warning in Troy's voice. He looked up in time to see Trell charge toward him again. But Bannor was swifter. As Trell lunged, Bannor met him head-on, butted him with such force that he reeled backward, crashed against the wall, fell to his hands and knees.

The impact stunned him. His massive frame writhed in pain, and his fingers gouged involuntarily at the stone, as if he were digging for breath.

They clenched into the floor as if it were only stiff clay. In a moment, both his fists were knotted in the rock.

Then he drew a deep shuddering breath, and snatched his hands out of the floor. He stared at the holes he had made; he was appalled to see that he had damaged stone. When he raised his head, he was panting hugely, so that his broad chest strained at the fabric of his tunic.

Bannor and Troy stood between him and Covenant. The Warmark held his sword poised. “Remember your Oath!” he commanded sharply. “Remember what you swore. Don't betray your own life.”

Tears started running soundlessly from Trell's eyes as he stared past the Warmark at Covenant. “My Oath?” he rasped. “He brings me to this. What Oath does he take?” With a sudden exertion, he heaved himself to his feet. Bannor stepped slightly ahead of Troy to defend against another attack, but Trell did not look at Covenant again. Breathing strenuously, as if there were not enough air for him in the Keep, he turned and shambled away down one of the corridors.

Hugging his bruised chest, Covenant moved over to sit with his back against the wall. The pain made him cough thickly. Troy stood nearby, tight-lipped and intense. But Bannor appeared completely unruffled; nothing surprised his comprehensive dispassion.

“Jesus! Covenant,” Troy said at last. “What has he got against you?”

Covenant waited until he found a clear space between coughs. Then he answered, “I raped his daughter.”

“You're joking!”

“No.” He kept his head down, but he was avoiding Bannor's eyes rather than Troy's.

“No wonder they call you the Unbeliever.” Troy spoke in a low voice to keep his rage under control. “No wonder your wife divorced you. You must have been unsufferable.”

No! Covenant panted. I was never unfaithful to her. Never. But he did not raise his head, made no effort to meet the injustice of Troy's accusation.

“Damn you, Covenant.” Troy's voice was soft, fervid. He sounded too furious to shout. As if he could no longer bear the sight of the Unbeliever, he turned on his heel and strode away. But as he moved he could no longer contain his rage. “Good God!” he yelled. “I don't know why you don't drop him in some dungeon and throw away the key! We've got enough trouble as it is!” Soon he was out of view down one of the halls, but his voice echoed after him like an anathema.

Sometime later, Covenant climbed to his feet, hugging the pain in his chest. His voice was weak from the effort of speaking around his hurt. “Bannor.”

“Ur-Lord?”

“Tell the High Lord about this. Tell her everything about Trell and me-and Troy.”

“Yes.”

“And, Bannor-”

The Bloodguard waited impassively.

“I wouldn't do it again-attack a girl like that. I would take it back if I could.” He said it as if it were a promise that he owed Bannor for saving his life.

But Bannor gave no sign that he understood or cared what the Unbeliever was saying.

After a while, Covenant went on, “Bannor, you're practically the only person around here who hasn't at least tried to forgive me for anything.”

“The Bloodguard do not forgive.”

“I know. I remember. I should count my blessings” With his arms wrapped around his chest to hold the pieces of himself together, he went back to his rooms.

Nine: Glimmermere

ANOTHER evening and night passed without any word or sign of Lord Foul's army-no glimmer of the fire warnings which the Lords had prepared across the Centre and North Plains, no returning scouts, no omens. Nevertheless Covenant felt an increase in the tension of Revelstone; as the suspense mounted, the ambient air almost audibly quivered with strain, and Lord's Keep breathed with a sharper intake, a more cautious release. Even the walls of his room expressed a mood of imminence. So he spent the evening on his balcony, drinking springwine to soothe the ache in his chest, and watching the vague shapes of the twilight as if they were incipient armies, rising out of the very ground to thrust bloodshed upon him. After a few flasks of the fine, clear beverage, he began to feel that only the tactile sensation of beard under his fingertips stood between him and actions war and killing-which he could not stomach.

When he slept that night, he had dreams of blood-wounds glutted with death in a vindictive and profligate expenditure which horrified him because he knew so vividly that only a few drops from an untended scratch were enough; there was no need or use for this hacking and slaughtering of flesh. But his dreams went on, agitating his sleep until at last he threw himself out of bed and went to stand on his balcony in the dawn, groaning over his bruised ribs.

Wrapped in the Keep's suspense, he tried to compose himself to continue his private durance-waiting in mixed anxiety and defiance for a peremptory summons from the High Lord. He did not expect her to take his encounter with her grandfather calmly, and he had kept to his rooms since the previous afternoon so that she would know where to find him. Still, when it came, the knock at his door made his heart jump. His fingers and toes tingled-he could feel his pulse in them-and he found himself breathing hard again, in spite of the pain in his chest. He had to swallow down a quick sour taste before he could master his voice enough to answer the knock.

The door opened, and Bannor entered the room. “The High Lord wishes to speak with you,” he said without inflection. “Will you come?”

Yes, Covenant muttered grimly to himself. Of course. Do I have a choice? Holding his chest to keep himself from wincing, he strode out of his suite and down the hall.

He started in the direction of the Close. He expected that Elena would want to make her anger at him public-to make him writhe before the assembled disapproval of Revelstone. He could have avoided Trell; it would have cost him nothing more than one instant of simple trust or considerateness. But Bannor soon steered him into other corridors. They passed through a small, heavy door hidden behind a curtain in one of the meeting halls, and went down a long, twisting stairwell into a deep part of the Keep unfamiliar to Covenant. The stair ended in a series of passages so irregular and dim that they confused him until he knew nothing about where he was except that he was deep in the gut-rock of Revelstone-deeper than the private quarters of the Lords.

But before long Bannor halted, facing a blank wall of stone. In the dim light of one torch, he spread his arms to the wall as if he were invoking it, and spoke three words in a language that came awkwardly to his tongue. When he lowered his arms, a door became visible. It swung inward, admitting the Bloodguard and Covenant to a high, brilliant cavern.

The makers of Revelstone had done little to shape or work this spacious cave. They had given it a smooth floor, but had left untouched the raw rough stone of its walls and ceiling; and they had not altered the huge rude columns which stood thickly through it like massive tree trunks, reaching up from the floor to take the burden of the ceiling upon their shoulders. However, the whole cavern was lit by large urns of graveling placed between the columns so that all the surfaces of the walls and columns were clearly illumined.

Displayed on these surfaces everywhere were works of art. Paintings and tapestries hung on the walls; large sculptures and carvings rested on stands between the columns and urns; smaller pieces, carvings and statuettes and stoneware and suru-pa-maerl works, sat on wooden shelves cunningly attached to the columns.

In his fascination, Covenant forgot why he had been brought here. He began moving around the hall, looking avidly. The smaller works caught his attention first. Many of them appeared in some way charged with action, imminent heat, as.if they had been captured in a moment of incarnation; but the differences in materials and emotions were enormous. Where an oaken figure of a woman cradling a baby wept protectively over the griefs and hurts of children, a similar granite subject radiated confident generative power; where a polished Gildenlode flame seemed to yearn upward, a suru-pa-maerl blaze expressed comfort and practical warmth. Studies of children and Ranyhyn and Giants abounded; but scattered among them were darker subjects-roynish ur-viles, strong, simpleminded Cavewights, and mad, valorous Kevin, reft of judgment and foresight but not courage or compassion by sheer despair. There was little copying of nature among them; the materials used were not congenial to mirroring or literalism. Instead, they revealed the comprehending hearts of their makers. Covenant was entranced.

Bannor followed him as he moved around the columns, and after a while the Bloodguard said, “This is the Hall of Gifts. All these were made by the people of the Land, and given to the Lords. Or to Revelstone.” He gazed about him with unmoved eyes. “They were given for honour or love. Or to be seen. But the Lords do not desire such gifts. They say that no one can possess such things. The treasure comes from the Land, and belongs to the Land. So all gifts given to the Lords are placed here, so that any who wish it may behold them.”

Yet Covenant heard something deeper in Bannor's voice. Despite its monotone, it seemed to articulate a glimpse of the hidden and unanswerable passion which bound the Bloodguard to the Lords. But Covenant did not pursue it, did not intrude on it.

From among the first columns, he was drawn to a large, thick arras hanging on one of the walls. He recognized it. It was the same work he had once tried to destroy. He had thrown it out of his room in the watchtower in a fit of outrage at the fable of Berek's life-and at the blindness which saw himself as Berek reborn. He could not be mistaken. The arras was tattered around the edges, and had a carefully repaired rent down its centre halfway through the striving, irenic figure of Berek Halfhand. In scenes around the central figure, it showed the hero's soul-journey to his despair on Mount Thunder, and to his discovery of the Earthpower. From it, Berek gazed out at the Unbeliever with portents in his eyes.

Roughly, Covenant turned away, and a moment later he saw High Lord Elena walking toward him from the opposite side of the hall. He remained where he was, watched her. The Staff of Law in her right hand increased the stateliness and authority of her step, but her left hand was open in welcome. Her robe covered her without disguising either the suppleness or the strength of her movements. Her hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and her sandals made a whispering noise on the stone.

Quietly, she said, “Thomas Covenant, be welcome to the Hall of Gifts. I thank you for coming.”

She was smiling as if she were glad to see him.

That smile contradicted his expectations, and he distrusted it. He studied her face, trying to discern her true feelings. Her eyes invited study. Even while they regarded him, they seemed to look beyond him or into him or through him, as if the space he occupied were shared by something entirely different. He thought fleetingly that perhaps she did not actually, concretely, see him at all.

As she approached, she said, “Do you like the Hall? The people of the Land are fine artists, are they not?” But when she neared him, she stopped short with a look of concern, and asked, “Thomas Covenant, are you in pain?”

He found that he was breathing rapidly again. The air in the Hall seemed too rarefied for him. When he shrugged his shoulders, he could not keep the ache of the movement off his face.

Elena reached her hand toward his chest. He half winced, thinking that she meant to strike him. But she only touched his bruised ribs gently with her palm for a moment, then turned away toward Bannor. “Bloodguard,” she said sharply, “the ur-Lord has been hurt. Why was he not taken to a Healer?”

“He did not ask,” Bannor replied stolidly.

“Ask? Should help wait for asking?”

Bannor met her gaze flatly and said nothing, as if he considered his rectitude to be self-evident. But the reproach in her tone gave Covenant an unexpected pang. In Bannor's defence, he said, “I don't need didn't need it. He kept me alive.”

She sighed without taking her eyes off the Bloodguard. “Well, that may be. But I do not like to see you harmed.” Then, relenting, she said, “Bannor, the ur-Lord and I will go upland. Send for us at once if there is any need.”

Bannor nodded, bowed slightly, and left the Hall.

When the hidden door was closed behind him, Elena turned back to Covenant. He tensed instinctively. Now, he muttered to himself. Now she'll do it. But to all appearances her irritation was gone. And she made no reference to the arras; she seemed unaware of the connection between him and that work. With nothing but innocence in her face, she said, “Well, Thomas Covenant. Do you like the Hall? You have not told me.”

He hardly heard her. Despite her pleasant expression, he could not believe that she did not intend to task him for his encounter with Trell. But then he saw concern mounting in her cheeks again, and he hurried to cover himself.

“What? Oh, the Hall. I like it fine. But isn't it a little out of the way? What good is a museum if people can't get to it?”

“All Revelstone knows the way. Now we are alone, but in times of peace-or in times when war is more distant-there are always people here. And the children in the schools spend much time here, learning of the crafts of the Land. Craftmasters come from all the Land to share and increase their skills. The Hall of Gifts is thus deep and concealed because the Giants who wrought the Keep deemed such a place fitting and because if ever Revelstone is whelmed the Hall may be hidden and preserved, in hope of the future.”

For an instant, the focus of her gaze seemed to swing closer to him, and her vision tensed as if she meant to burn her way through his skull to find out what he was thinking. But then she turned away with a gentle smile, and walked toward another wall of the cavern. “Let me show you another work,” she said. “It is by one of our rarest Craftmasters, Ahanna daughter of Hanna. Here.”

He followed, and stopped with her before a large picture in a burnished ebony frame. It was a dark work, but glowing bravely near its centre was a figure that he recognized immediately: Lord Mhoram. The Lord stood alone in a hollow tightly surrounded by black fiendish shapes which were about to fall on him like a flood, deluge him utterly. His only weapon was his staff, but he wielded it defiantly; and in his eyes was a hot, potent look of extremity and triumph, as if he had discovered within himself some capacity for peril that made him unconquerable.

Elena said respectfully, “Ahanna names this `Lord Mhoram's Victory.' She is a prophet, I think.”.

The sight of Mhoram in such straits hurt Covenant, and he took it as a reproach. “Listen,” he said. “Stop playing around with me like this. If you've got something to say, say it. Or take Troy's advice, and lock me up. But don't do this to me.”

“Playing around? I do not understand”

“Hellfire! Stop looking so innocent. You got me down here to let me have it for that run-in with Trell. Well, get it over with. I can't stand the suspense.”

The High Lord met his glare with such openness that he turned away, muttering under his breath to steady himself.

“Ur-Lord.” She placed an appealing hand on his arm. “Thomas Covenant. How can you believe such thoughts? How can you understand us so little? Look at me. Look at me!” She pulled his arm until he turned back to her, faced the sincerity she expressed with every line of her face. "I did not ask you here to torment you. I wished to share my last hour in the Hall of Gifts with you. This war is near-near- and I will not soon stand here again. As for the Warmark — I do not take counsel from him concerning you. If there is any blame in your meeting with Trell, it is mine. I did not give you clear warning of my fears. And I did not see the extent of the danger-else I would have told all the Bloodguard to prevent your meeting.

“No, ur-Lord. I have no hard words to speak to you. You should reproach me. I have endangered your life, and cost Trell Atiaran-mate my grandfather his last self-respect. He was helpless to heal his daughter and his wife. Now he will believe that he is helpless to heal himself.”

Looking at her, Covenant's distrust fell into dust. He took a deep breath to clean stale air from his lungs. But the movement hurt his ribs. The pain made him fear that she would reach toward him, and he mumbled quickly, “Don't touch me.”

For an instant, she misunderstood him. Her fingers leaped from his arm, and the otherness of her vision flicked across him with a virulence that made him flinch, amazed and baffled. But what she saw corrected her misapprehension. The focus of her gaze left him; she extended her hand slowly to place her palm on his chest.

“I hear you,” she said. “But I must touch you. You have been my hope for too long. I cannot give you up. He took her wrist with the two fingers and thumb of his right hand, but he hesitated a moment before he removed her palm. Then he said, ”What happens to Trell now? He broke his Oath. Is anything done to him?"

“Alas, there is little we can do. It lies with him. We will try to teach him that an Oath which has been broken may still be kept. But it was not his intent to harm you-he did not plan his attack. I know him, and am sure of this. He has known of your presence in Revelstone, yet he made no effort to seek you out. No, he was overcome by his hurt. I do not know how he will recover.”

As she spoke, he saw that once again he had failed F to comprehend. He had been thinking about punishment rather than healing. Hugging his sore ribs, he said, “You're too gentle. You've got every right to hate me.”

She gave him a look of mild exasperation. "Neither

Lena my mother nor I have ever hated you. It is impossible for us. And what would be the good? Without you, I would not be. It may be that Lena would have married Triock, and given birth to a daughter-but that daughter would be another person. I would not be who I am.“ A moment later, she smiled. ”Thomas Covenant, there are few children in all the history of the Land who have ridden a Ranyhyn."

“Well, at least that part of it worked out.” He shrugged aside her questioning glance. He did not feel equal to explaining the bargain he had tried to make with the Ranyhyn-or the way in which that bargain had failed him.

A mood of constraint came between them. Elena turned away from it to look again at “Lord Mhoram's Victory.”

“This picture disturbs me,” she said. “Where am I? If Mhoram is thus sorely beset, why am I not at his side? How have I fallen, that he is so alone?” She touched the picture lightly, brushed her fingertips over Mhoram's lone, beleaguered, invincible stance. “It is in my heart that this war will go beyond me.”

The thought stung her. Suddenly she stepped back from the painting, stood tall with the Staff of Law planted on the stone before her. She shook her head so that her brown-and-honey hair snapped as if a wind blew about her shoulders, and breathed intensely, “No! I will see it ended! Ended!”

As she repeated Ended, she struck the floor with the Staff's iron heel. An instant of bright blue fire ignited in the air. The stone lurched under Covenants feet, and he nearly fell. But she quenched her power almost at once; it passed like a momentary intrusion of nightmare. Before he could regain his balance, she caught his arm and steadied him.

“Ah, you must pardon me,” she said with a look like laughter. “I forgot myself.”

He braced his feet, tried to determine whether or not he could still trust the floor. The stone felt secure. “Give me fair warning next time,” he muttered, “so I can sit down.”

The High Lord broke into clear laughter, then subdued herself abruptly. “Your pardon again, Thomas Covenant. But your expression is so fierce and foolish.”

“Forget it,” he replied. He found that he liked the sound of her laugh. “Ridicule may be the only good answer.”

“Is that a proverb from your world? Or are you a prophet?”

“A little of both.”

“You are strange. You transpose wisdom and jest you reverse their meanings.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, ur-Lord Covenant,” she said lightly, humorously. “That is a fact.” Then she appeared to remember something. “But we must go. I think we are expected. And you have never seen the upland. Will you come with me?”

He shrugged. She smiled at him, and he followed her toward the door of the Hall.

“Who's expecting us?” he asked casually.

She opened the door and preceded him through it. When it was closed behind them, she answered, “I would like to surprise you. But perhaps that would not be fair warning. There is a man-a man who studies dreams-to find the truth in them. One of the Unfettered.”

His heart jumped again, and he wrapped his arms protectively around his sore chest. Hellfire, he groaned to himself. An interpreter of dreams. Just what I need. An Unfettered One had saved him and Atiaran from the ur-viles at the Celebration of Spring. By a perverse trick of recollection, he heard the Unfettered One's death cry in the wake of Elena's clear voice. And he remembered Atiaran's grim insistence that it was the responsibility of the living to make meaningful the sacrifices of the dead. With a brusque gesture, he motioned for Elena to lead the way, then walked after her, muttering, Hellfire. Hellfire.

She guided him back up through the levels of Revelstone until he began to recognize his surroundings. Then they moved westward, still climbing, and after a while they joined a high, wide passage like a road along the length of the Keep, rising slowly. Soon the decreasing weight of the stone around him, and the growing autumnal tang of the air, told him that they were approaching the level of the plateau which topped the Keep. After two sharp switchbacks, the passage ended, and he found himself out in the open, standing on thick grass under the roofless heavens. A league or two west of him were the mountains.

A cool breeze hinting a fall crispness touched him through the late morning sunlight-a low blowing as full of ripe earth and harvests as if it were clairvoyant, foretelling bundled crops and full fruit and seeds ready for rest. But the trees on the plateau and the upland hills were predominantly evergreens, feathery mimosas and tall pines and wide cedars with no turning of leaves. And the hardy grass made no concessions to the changing season.

The hills of the upland were Revelstone's secret strength. They were protected by sheer cliffs on the east and south, by mountains on the north and west; and so they were virtually inaccessible except through Lord's Keep itself. Here the people of the city could get food and water to withstand a siege. Therefore Revelstone could endure as long as its walls and gates remained impregnable.

“So you see,” said Elena, “that the Giants wrought well for the Land in all ways. While Revelstone stands, there remains one bastion of hope. In its own way, the Keep is as impervious to defeat as Foul's Creche is said to be-in the old legends. This is vital, for the legends also say that the shadow of Despite will never be wholly driven from the Land while Ridjeck Thome, Lord Foul's dire demesne, endures. So our: debt to the Giants is far greater than for unfaltering friendship. It is greater than anything we can repay.”

Her tone was grateful, but her mention of the Giants cast a gloom over her and Covenant. She turned away from it, and led him northward along the curve of the upland.

In this direction, the plateau rose into rumpled hills; and soon, on their left, away from the cliff, they began to pass herds of grazing cattle. Cattleherds saluted the High Lord ceremoniously, and she responded with quiet bows. Later, she and Covenant crossed a hilltop from which they could see westward across the width of the upland. There, beyond the swift river that ran south toward the bead of Furl Falls, were fields where crops of wheat and maize rippled in the breeze. And a league behind the grazeland and the river and the fields stood the mountains, rising rugged and grand out of the hills. The peaks were snow-clad, and their white bemantling made them look hoary and aloof-sheer, wild, and irreproachable. The Haruchai lived west and south in this same range.

Covenant and the High Lord continued northward, slowly winding away from the cliffs and toward the river as Elena chose an easy path among the hills. She seemed content with the silence between them, so they both moved without speaking. Covenant walked as if he were drinking in the upland with his eyes and ears. The sturdy health of the grass, the clean, hale soil and the inviolate rock, the ripeness of the wheat and maize-all were vivid to his sight. The singing and soaring of the birds sounded like joy in the air. And when he passed close to a particularly tall, magisterial pine, he felt that he could almost hear the climbing of its sap. For a league, he forgot himself in his enjoyment of the Land's late summer.

Then he began to wonder vaguely how far Elena meant to take him. But before he became willing to interrupt the quietness with a question, they crossed the rise of a high hill, and she announced that they had arrived. “Ah,” she said with a sigh of gladness, “Glimmermere! Lakespring and riverhead-hail, clean pool! It pleases my heart to see you again.”

They were looking down on a mountain lake, the headwater of the river which ran to Furl Falls. For all the swiftness of the current rushing from it, it was a still pool, with no inflowing streams; all its water came from springs within it. And its surface was as flat, clear, and reflective as polished glass. It echoed the mountains and the sky with flawless fidelity, imaging the world in every detail.

“Come,” Elena said suddenly. “The Unfettered One will ask us to bathe in Glimmermere.” Throwing a quick smile at him, she ran lightly down the hill. He followed her at a walk, but the springy grass seemed to urge him forward until he was trotting. On the edge of the lake, she dropped the Staff as if she were discarding it, tightened the sash of her robe, and with a last wave toward him dove into the water.

When he reached Glimmermere, he was momentarily appalled to find that she had vanished. From this range, the reflection was transparent, and behind it he could see the rocky bottom of the lake. Except for a darkness like a deep shadow at its centre, he could see the whole bottom in clear detail, as if the pool were only a few feet deep. But he could not see Elena. She seemed to have dived out of existence.

He leaned over the water to peer into it, then stepped back sharply as he noticed that Glimmermere did not reflect his image. The noon sun was repeated through him as if he were invisible.

The next instant, Elena broke water twenty yards out in the lake. She shook her head clear, and called for him to join her. When she saw the wide gape of his astonishment, she laughed gaily. “Does Glimmermere surprise you?”

He stared at her. He could see nothing of her below the plane where she broke the water. Her physical substance seemed to terminate at the waterline. Above the surface, she bobbed as if she were treading water; below, the bottom of the pool was clearly visible through the space she should have occupied. With an effort, he pulled his mouth shut, then called to her, “I told you to give me fair warning!”

“Come!” she replied. “Do not be concerned. There is no harm.” When he did not move, she continued, “This is water, like any other-but stronger. There is Earthpower here. Our flesh is too unsolid for Glimmermere. It does not see us. Come!”

Tentatively, he stooped and dipped his hand in the water. His fingers vanished as soon as they passed below the surface. But when he snatched them back, they were whole and wet, tingling with cold.

Impelled by a sense of surprise and discovery, he pulled off his boots and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and stepped into the pool.

At once, he plunged in over his head. Even at its edges, the lake was deep; the clarity with which he could see the bottom had misled him. But the cold, tangy water buoyed him up, and he popped quickly back to the surface. Treading water and sputtering, he looked around until he located Elena. “Fair warning!” He tried to sound angry despite Glimmermere's fresh, exuberant chill. “I'll teach you fair warning!” He reached her in a few swift strokes, and shoved her head down.,

She reappeared immediately, laughing almost before she lifted her head above water. He lunged at her, but she slipped,past him, and pushed him under instead. He grappled for her ankles and missed. When he came up, she was out of sight.

He felt her tugging at his feet. Grabbing a deep breath, he upended himself and plunged after her. For the first time, he opened his eyes underwater, and found that he could see well. Elena swam near him, grinning. He reached her in a moment, and caught her by the waist.

Instead of trying to pull away, she turned, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the mouth.

Abruptly, all the air burst from his lungs as if she had kicked his sore ribs. He thrust away from her, scrambled back to the surface. Coughing and gasping, he thrashed over to the edge of the pool where he had left his boots, and climbed out to collapse on the grass.

His chest hurt as if he had reinjured his ribs, but he knew he had not. The first touch of Glimmermere's potent water had effaced his bruises, simply washed them away, and they did not ache now. This was another pain; in his exertions underwater he seemed to have wrenched his heart.

He lay panting face down on the grass, and after a while, his breathing relaxed. He became aware of other sensations. The cold, tart touch of the water left his whole body excited; he felt cleaner than he had at any time since he had learned of his leprosy. The sun was warm on his back, and his fingertips tingled vividly. And his heart ached when-Elena joined him on the grass.

He could feel her eyes on him before she asked quietly, “Are you happy in your world?”

Clenching himself, he rolled over, and found that she sat close to him, regarding him softly. Unable to resist the sensation, he touched a strand of her wet hair, rubbed it between his fingers. Then he lifted his grey, gaunt eyes to meet her gaze. The way he held himself made his voice unintentionally harsh. “Happiness has got nothing to do with it. I don't think about happiness. I think about staying alive.”

“Could you be happy here?”

“That's not fair. What would you say if I asked you that?”

“I would say yes.” But a moment later she saw what he meant, and drew herself up. “I would say that happiness lies in serving the Land. And I would say that there is no happiness in times of war.”

He lay back on the grass so that he would not have to look at her. Bleakly, he murmured, “Where I come from, there is no Land.' Just ground.' Dead. And there's always war.”

After a short pause, she said with a smile in her voice, “If I have heard rightly, it is such talk as this which makes Hiltmark Quaan angry with you.”

“I can't help it. It's the simple fact.”

“You have a great respect for facts”

He breathed carefully around his sore heart before answering. “No. I hate them. They're all I've got.”

A gentle silence came over them. Elena reclined beside him, and they lay still to let the sunlight dry them. The warmth, the smell of the grass, seemed to offer him a sense of well-being; but when he tried to relax and flow with it, his pulse throbbed uncomfortably in his chest. He was too conscious of Elena's presence. But gradually he became aware that a larger silence covered Glimmermere. All the birds and even the breeze had become quiet, hushed. For a time, he kept his breathing shallow and explored the ambience of the air with his ears.

Shortly, Elena said, “He comes,” and went to retrieve the Staff. Covenant sat up and looked around. Then he heard it a soft, clean sound like a flute, spreading over Glimmermere from one source that he could see, as if the air itself were singing. The tune moved, came closer. Soon he could follow the words.

Free

Unfettered

Shriven

Free—

Dream that what is dreamed will be:

Hold eyes clasped shut until they see,

And sing the silent prophecy—

And be

Unfettered

Shriven

Free.

Lone

Unfriended

Bondless

Lone—

Drink of loss 'til it is done,

'Till solitude has come and gone,

And silence is communion—

And yet

Unfriended

Bondless

Lone.

Deep

Unbottomed

Endless

Deep—

Touch the true mysterious Keep

Where halls of fealty laugh and weep;

While treachers through the dooming creep

In blood

Unbottomed

Endless

Deep.

“Stand to meet him,” the High Lord said quietly. “He is One of the Unfettered. He has gone beyond the knowledge of the Loresraat, in pursuance of a private vision open to him alone.”

Covenant arose, still listening to the song. It had an entrancing quality which silenced his questions and doubts. He stood erect, with his head up as if he were eager. And soon the Unfettered One came into sight over the hills north of Glimmermere.

He stopped singing when he saw Covenant and Elena, but his appearance sustained his influence over them. He wore a long flowing robe that seemed to have no colour of its own; instead it caught the shades around it, so that it was grass-green below his waist, azure on his shoulders, and the rock and snow of the mountains flickered on his right side. His unkempt hair flared, reflecting the sun.

He came directly toward Covenant and Elena, and soon Covenant could make out his face-soft androgynous features thickly bearded, deep eyes. When he stopped before them, he and the High Lord exchanged no rituals or greetings. He said to her simply, “Leave us,” in a high, fluted voice like a woman's. His tone expressed neither rejection nor command, but rather something that sounded like necessity, and she bowed to it without question.

But before she left, she put her hand again on Covenant's arm, looked searchingly into his face. “Thomas Covenant,” she said with a low quaver in her voice as if she were afraid of him or for him. “Ur-Lord. When I must leave for this war-will you accompany me?”

He did not look at her. He stood as if his toes were rooted in the grass, and gazed into the Unfettered One's eyes. When after a time he failed to reply, she bowed her head, squeezed his arm, then moved away toward Revelstone. She did not look back. Soon she was out of sight beyond the hill.

“Come,” said the Unfettered One in the same tone of necessity. Without waiting for a response, he started to return the way he had come.

Covenant took two uncertain steps forward, then stopped as a spasm of anxiety clenched his features. He tore his eyes off the Unfettered One's back, looked urgently around him. When he located his socks and boots, he hurried toward them, dropped to the grass and pulled them onto his feet. With a febrile deliberateness, as if he were resisting the tug of some current or compulsion, he laced his boots and tied them securely.

When his feet were safe from the grass, he sprang up and ran after the interpreter of dreams.

Ten: Seer and Oracle

LATE the next evening, Lord Mhoram answered a knock at the door of his private quarters, and found Thomas Covenant standing outside, silhouetted darkly like a figure of distress against the light of the glowing floor. He had an aspect of privation and fatigue, as if he had tasted neither food nor rest since he had gone upland. Mhoram admitted him without question to the bare room, and closed the door while he went to stand before the stone table in the centre of the chamber-the table Mhoram had brought from the High Lord's rooms, with the krill of Loric still embedded and burning in it.

Looking at the bunched muscles of Covenant's back, Mhoram offered him food or drink or a bed, but Covenant shrugged them away brusquely, despite his inanition. In a flat and strangely closed tone, he said, "You've been beating your brains out on this thing ever since it started. Don't you ever rest?

I thought you Lords rested down here-in this place.“ Mhoram crossed the room, and stood opposite his guest. The krill flamed whitely between them. He was uncertain of his ground; he could see the trouble in Covenant's face, but its causes and implications were confused, obscure. Carefully, the Lord said, ”Why should I rest? I have no wife, no children. My father and mother were both Lords, and Kevin's Lore is the only craft I have known. And it is difficult to rest from such work."

“And you're driven. You're the seer and oracle around here. You're the one who gets glimpses of the future whether you want them or not, whether they make you scream in your sleep or not, whether you can stand them or not.” Covenant's voice choked for a moment, and he shook his head fiercely until he could speak again. “No wonder you can't rest. I'm surprised you can stand to sleep at all.”

“I am not a Bloodguard,” Mhoram returned calmly. “I need sleep like other men.”

“What have you figured out? Do you know what this thing is good for? What was that Amok business about?”

Mhoram gazed at Covenant across the krill, then smiled softly. “Will you sit down, my friend? You will hear long answers more comfortably if you ease your weariness.”

“I'm not tired,” the Unbeliever said with obvious falseness. The next moment, he dropped straight into a chair. Mhoram took a seat, and when he sat down he found that Covenant had positioned himself directly across the table, so that the krill stood between their faces. This arrangement disturbed Mhoram, but he could think of no other way to help Covenant than to listen and talk, so he stayed where he was, and focused his other senses to search for what was blocked from his sight by the gem of the krill.

"No, I do not comprehend Loric's sword-and I cannot draw it from the table. I might free it by breaking the stone, but that would serve no purpose. We would gain no knowledge-only a weapon we could not touch. If the krill were free, it would not help us. It is a power altogether new to us. We do not know its uses. And we do not like to break wood or stone, for any purpose.

“As to Amok-that is an open question. Lord Amatin could answer better.”

“I'm asking you.”

“It is possible,” Mhoram said steadily, “that he was created by Kevin to defend against the krill itself. Perhaps the power here is so perilous that in unwise hands, or ignorant hands, it would do great harm. If that is true, then it may be that Amok's purpose is to warn us from any unready use of this power, and to guide our learning.”

“You shouldn't sound so plausible when you say things like that. That isn't right. Didn't you hear what he said? `I have misserved my purpose.”'

“Perhaps he knows that if we are too weak to bring the krill to life, we are powerless to use it in any way, for good or ill.”

“All right. Forget it. Just forget that this is something else I did to you without any idea what in hell I was doing. Let it stand. What makes you think that good old Kevin Landwaster who started all this anyway is lurking in back of everything that happens to you like some kind of patriarch, making sure you don't do the wrong thing and blow yourselves to bits? No, forget it. I know better than that, even if I have spent only a few weeks going crazy over this and not forty years like the rest of you. Tell me this. What's so special about Kevin's Lore? Why are you so hot to follow it? If you need power, why don't you go out and find it for yourselves, instead of wasting whole generations of perfectly decent people on a bunch of incomprehensible Wards? In the name of sanity, Mhoram, if not for the sake of mere pragmatic usefulness.”

“Ur-Lord, you surpass me. I hear you, and yet I am left as if I were deaf or blind.”

“I don't care about that. Tell me why.”

"It is not difficult-the matter is clear. The Earthpower is here, regardless of our mastery or use. The Land is here. And the banes and the evil-the Illearth

Stone, the Despiser-are here, whether or not we can defend against them.

“Ah, how shall I speak of it? At times, my friend, the most simple, clear matters are the most difficult to utter.” He paused for a moment to think. But through the silence he felt an upsurge of agitation from Covenant, as if the Unbeliever were clinging to the words between them, and could not bear to have them withdrawn. Mhoram began to speak again, though he did not have his answer framed to his satisfaction.

"Consider it in this way. The study of Kevin's knowledge is the only choice we can accept. Surely you will understand that we cannot expect the Earth to speak to us, as it did to Berek Halfhand. Such things do not happen twice. No matter how great our courage, or how imposing our need, the Land will not be saved that way again. Yet the Earthpower remains, to be used in Landservice-if we are able. But that Power-all power-is dreadful. It does not preserve itself from harm, from wrong use. As you say, we might strive to master the Earthpower in our own way. But the risk forbids.

"Ur-Lord, we have sworn an Oath of Peace which brooks no compromise. Consider-forgive me, my friend, but I must give you a clear example-consider the fate of Atiaran Trell-mate. She dared powers which were beyond her, and was destroyed. Yet the result could have been far worse. She might have destroyed others, or hurt the Land. How could we, the Lords we who have sworn to uphold all health and beauty how could we justify such hazards?

“No, we must work in other ways. If we are to gain the power to defend the Earth, and yet not endanger the Land itself, we must be the masters of what we do. And it was for this purpose that Lord Kevin created his Wards-so that those who came after him could hold power wisely.”

“Oh, right!” Covenant snapped. “Look at the good it did him. Hellfire! Even supposing you're going to have the luck or the brains or even the chance to find all Seven Wards and figure them out, what bloody damnation! — what's going to happen when dear, old, dead Kevin finally lets you have the secret of the Ritual of Desecration? And it's your last chance to stop Foul in a war again! How're you going to rationalize that to the people who'll have to start from scratch a thousand years from now because you just couldn't get out of repeating history? Or do you think that when the crisis comes you're somehow going to do a better job than Kevin did?”

He spoke coldly, rapidly, but a smudged undercurrent in his voice told Mhoram that he was not talking about what was uppermost in his mind. He seemed to be putting the Lord through a ritual of questions, testing him. Mhoram responded carefully, hoping for Covenant's sake that he would not make a mistake.

“We know the peril now. We have known it since the Giants returned the First Ward to us. Therefore we have sworn the Oath of Peace--and will keep it so that never again will life and Land be harmed by despair. If we are brought to the point where we must desecrate or be defeated, then we will fight until we are defeated. The fate of the Earth will be in other hands.”

“Which I'm doing nothing but make difficult for you. Just having this white gold raises prospects of eradication that never occurred to you before-not to mention the fact that it's useless. Before this there wasn't enough power around to make it even worth your while to worry about despair, since you couldn't damage the Land if you wanted to. But now Foul might get my ring-or I might use it against you-but it'll never save you.”

Covenant's hands twitched on the table as if he were fumbling, for something. His fingers knotted together, tensed, then sprang apart to grope separately, aimlessly. “All right. Forget that, too. I'm coming to that. How in the name of all the gods are you going to fight a war-a war, Mhoram, not just fencing around with a bunch of Cavewights and ur-viles! When everyone you've got who's tall enough to hold a sword has sworn this Oath of Peace? Or are there special dispensations like fine print in your contracts exempting wars from moral strictures or even the simple horror of blood?”

It was in Mhoram's heart to tell Covenant that he went too far. But the fumbling, graspless jerks of his hands-one maimed, the other carrying his ring like a fetter-told Mhoram that the affront of the Unbeliever's language was directed inward at himself, not at the Lords or the Land. This perception increased Mhoram's concern, and again he replied with steady dignity.

"My friend, killing is always to be abhorred. It is a measure of our littleness that we cannot evade it. But I must remind you of a few matters. You have heard Berek's Code-it is part of our Oath. It commands us:

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 he who does not need to kill.

And you have heard High Lord Prothall say that the Land would not be served by angry bloodshed. There he touched upon the heart of the Oath. We will do all that might or mastery permits to defend the Land from Despite. But we will do nothing-to the Land, to our foes, to each other-which is commanded to us by our hearts' black passions or pain or lust for death. Is this not clear to you, ur-Lord? If we must fight and, yes, kill, then our only defence and vindication is to fight so that we do not become like our Enemy. Here Kevin Landwaster failed-he was weakened by that despair which is the Despiser's strength.

“No, we must fight-if only to preserve ourselves from watching the evil, as Kevin watched and was undone. But if we harm each other, or the Land, or hate our foes-ah, there will be no dawn to the night of that failure.”

“That's sophistry.”

“Sophistry? I do not know this word.”

"Clever arguments to finance what you've already decided to do. Rationalizations. War in the name of

Peace. As if when you poke your sword into a foe you aren't slicing up ordinary flesh and blood that has as much right to go on living as you do."

“Then do you truly believe that there is no difference between fighting to destroy the Land and fighting to preserve it?”

“Difference? What has that got to do with it? It's still killing. But never mind. Forget that, too. You're doing too good a job. If I can't pick holes in your answers any better than this, I'm going to end up-” His hands began to shake violently, and he snatched them out of sight, shoved them below the table. “I'll end up freezing to death, that's what.”

Slumped back in his chair, Covenant fell into an aching silence. Mhoram felt the pressure between them build, and decided that the time had come to ask questions of his own. Breathing to himself the Seven Words, he said kindly, “You are troubled, my friend. The High Lord is difficult to refuse, is she not?”

“So?” Covenant snapped. But a moment later, he groaned, “Yes. Yes, she is. But that isn't it. The whole Land is difficult to refuse. I've felt that way from the beginning. That isn't it.” After a tense pause, he went on: “Do you know what she did to me yesterday? She took me upland to see that Unfettered One — the man who claims to understand dreams. I was there for a day or more-But you're the seer and oracle-I don't have to tell you about him. You've probably gone up there yourself more than anyone, else, couldn't help it, if only because mere ordinary human ears can only stand to hear so much contempt and laughter and no more, regardless of whether you're asleep or not. So you know what it's like. You know how he latches onto you with those eyes, and holds you down, and dissects-But you're the seer and oracle. You probably even know what he said to me.”

“No,” Mhoram replied quietly.

“He said-Hellfire!” He shook his head as if he were dashing water from his eyes. “He said that I dream the truth. He said that I am very fortunate. He said that people with such dreams are the true enemies of Despite it isn't Law, the Staff of Law wasn't made to fight Foul with-no, it's wild magic and dreams that are the opposite of Despite.” For an instant, the air around him quivered with indignation. "He also said that I don't believe it. That was a big help. I just wish I knew whether I am a hero or a coward.

“No, don't answer that. It isn't up to you.”

Lord Mhoram smiled to reassure Covenant, but the Unbeliever was already continuing, “Anyway, I've got a belief-for what it's worth. It just isn't exactly the one you people want me to have.”

Probing again, Mhoram said, “That may be. But I do not see it. You do not show us belief, but Unbelief. If this is believing, then it is not belief for, but rather belief against.”

Covenant jumped to his feet as if he had been stung. “I deny that! Just because I don't affirm the Land or whatever, carry on like some unravelled fanatic and foam at the mouth for a chance to fight like Troy does, doesn't mean assuming that there's some kind of justice in the labels and titles which you people spoon around-assuming you can put a name at all to this gut-broken whatever that I can't even articulate much less prove to myself. That is not what Unbelief means.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means-” For a moment, Covenant stopped, choking on the words as if his heart suffered some blockage. Then he reached forward and shaded the gem of the krill with his hands so that it did not shine in his eyes. In a voice suddenly and terribly suffused with the impossibility of any tears which would have eased him, he shouted, “It means I've got to withhold — to discount-to keep something for myself! Because I don't know why!” The next instant, he dropped back into his chair and bowed his head, hiding it in his arms as if he were ashamed.

“ Why?” Mhoram said softly. "That is not so hard a matter here, thus distant from `how.' Some of our legends hint at one answer. They tell of the beginning of the Earth, in a time soon after the birth of Time, when the Earth's Creator found that his brother and Enemy, the Despiser, had marred his creation by placing banes of surpassing evil deep within it. In outrage and pain, the Creator cast his Enemy down-out of the universal heavens onto the Earth-and imprisoned him here within the arch of Time. Thus, as the legends tell it, Lord Foul came to the Land."

As he spoke, he felt that he was not replying to Covenant's question-that the question had a direction he could not see. But he continued, offering Covenant the only answer he possessed.

"It is clear now that Lord Foul lusts to strike back at his brother, the Creator. And at last, after ages of bootless wars carried on out of malice, out of a desire to harm the creation because he could not touch the Creator, Lord Foul has found a way to achieve his end, to destroy the arch of Time, unbind his exile, and return to his forbidden home, for spite and woe. When the Staff of Law, lost by Kevin at the Desecration, came within his influence, he gained a chance to bridge the gap between worlds-a chance to bring white gold into the Land.

“I tell you simply: it is Lord Foul's purpose to master the wild magic-'the anchor of the arch of life that spans and masters Time'-and with it bring Time to an end, so that he may escape his bondage and carry his lust throughout the universe. To do this, he must defeat you, must wrest the white gold from you. Then all the Land and all the Earth will surely fall.”

Covenant raised his head, and Mhoram tried to anticipate his next question. “But how? — how does the Despiser mean to accomplish this purpose? Ah, my friend, that I do not know. He will choose ways which resemble our own desires so closely that we will not resist. We will not be able to distinguish between his service and our own until we are bereft of all aids but you, whether you choose to help us or no.”

“But why?” Covenant repeated. “Why me?”

Again, Mhoram felt that his answer did not lie in the direction of Covenant's question. But still he offered it, humbly, knowing that it was all he had to give his tormented visitor.

"My friend, it is in my heart that you were chosen by the Creator. That is our hope. Lord Foul taught Drool to do the summoning because he desired white gold. But Drool's hands were on the Staff, not Lord Foul's. The Despiser could not control who was summoned. So if you were chosen, you were chosen by the Creator.

“Consider. He is the Creator, the maker of the Earth. How can he stand careless and see his making destroyed? Yet he cannot reach his hand to help us here. That is the law of Time. If he breaks the arch to touch the Land with his power, Time will end, and the Despiser will be free. So he must resist Lord Foul elsewhere. With you, my friend.”

“Damnation,” Covenant mumbled.

“Yet even this you must understand. He cannot touch you here, to teach or help you, for the same reason that he cannot help us. Nor can he touch or teach or help you in your own world. If he does, you will not be free. You will become his tool, and your presence will break the arch of Time, unbinding Despite. So you were chosen. The Creator believes that your uncoerced volition and strength will save us in the end. If he is wrong, he has put the weapon of his own destruction into Lord Foul's hands.”

After a long silence, Covenant muttered, “A hell of a risk.”

“Ah, but he is the Creator. How could he do otherwise?”

“He could burn the place down, and try again. But I guess you don't think gods are that humble. Or do you call it arrogance-to burn-? Never mind. I seem to remember that not all the Lords believe in this Creator as you do.”

“That is true. But you came to me. I answer as I can.”

“I know. Don't mind me. But tell me this. What would you do in my place?”

“No,” said Mhoram. At last he moved his chair to one side, so that he could see Covenant's face. Gazing into the Unbeliever's unsteady features, he replied, “That I will not answer. Who can declare? Power is a dreadful thing. I cannot judge you with an answer. I have not yet judged myself.”

The instability of Covenant's expression momentarily resolved into seeking. But he did not speak, and after a time Mhoram decided to risk another question. “Thomas Covenant, why do you take this so? Why are you so hurt? You say that the Land is a dream a delusion-that we have no real life. Then do not be concerned. Accept the dream, and laugh. When you awaken, you will be free.”

“No,” Covenant said. “I recognized something in what you said-I'm starting to understand this. Listen. This whole crisis here is a struggle inside me. By hell, I've been a leper so long, I'm starting to think that the way people treat lepers is justified. So I'm becoming my own enemy, my own Despiser-working against myself when I try to stay alive by agreeing with the people who make it so hard. That's why I'm dreaming this. Catharsis. Work out the dilemma subconsciously, so that when I wake up I'll be able to cope.”

He stood up suddenly, and began to pace Mhoram's ascetic chamber with a voracious gleam in his eyes. “Sure. That's it. Why didn't I think of it before? I've been telling myself all the time that this is escapism, suicide. But that's not it-that's not it at all. Just forget that I'm losing every one of the habits that keep me alive. This is dream therapy.”

But abruptly a grimace of pain clutched his face. “Hellfire!” he-rasped intensely. “That sounds like a story I should have burned-back when I was burning stories-when I still had stories to burn.”

Mhoram heard the anguished change, the turning to dust, in Covenant's tone, and he stood to reach out toward his visitor. But he did not need to move; Covenant came almost aimlessly in his direction, as if within the four walls of the chamber he had lost his way. He stopped at the table near Mhoram, and gazed miserably at the krill. His voice shook.

“I don't believe it. That's just another easy way to die. I already know too many of them.”

He seemed to stumble, though he was standing still. He lurched forward, and caught himself on Mhoram's shoulder. For a moment, he clung there, pressing his forehead into Mhoram's robe. Then Mhoram lowered him into a chair.

“Ah, my friend, how can I help you? I do not understand.”

Covenant's lips trembled, but with a visible effort he regained control of his voice. “Just tired. I haven't eaten since yesterday. That Unfettered One-drained me. Some food would be very nice.”

The opportunity to do something for Covenant gave Mhoram a feeling of relief. Moving promptly, he brought his guest a flask of springwine. Covenant drank as if he were trying to break an inner drought, and Mhoram went to his back rooms to find some food.

While he was placing bread and cheese and grapes on a tray, he heard a sharp, distant shout; a voice cried his name with an urgency that smote his heart. He set the tray down, hastened to throw open the door of his chambers.

In the sudden wash of light from the courtyard, he saw a warrior standing in one of the coigns high above him. The warrior was a young man-too young for war meat, Mhoram thought grimly-who had lost command of himself. “Lord Mhoram!” he blurted. “Come! Now! The Close!”

“Stop.” The authority in Mhoram's tone caught the young man like a bit. He winced, stiffened, forced down a chaotic tumult of words. Then he recovered his self-possession. Seeing this, the Lord said more gently, “I hear you. Speak.”

“The High Lord asks that you come to the Close at once. A messenger has come from the Plains of Ra. The Grey Slayer is marching.”

“War?” Mhoram spoke softly to conceal a sharp prevision of blood.

“Yes, Lord Mhoram.”

“Please say to the High Lord that that I have heard you.”

Bearing himself carefully, Mhoram turned back toward Covenant. The Unbeliever met his gaze with a hot, oddly focused look, as if his skull were splitting between his eyes. Mhoram asked simply, “Will you come?”

Covenant gripped the Lord's gaze, and said, “Tell me something, Mhoram. How did you get away when that Raver caught you-near Foul's Creche?”

Mhoram answered with a conscious serenity, a refusal of dismay, which looked like danger in his gold-flecked eyes. “The Bloodguard with me were slain. But when samadhi Raver touched me, he knew me as I knew him. He was daunted.”

For a moment, Covenant did not move. Then he dropped his glance. Wearily, he set the stoneware flask on the table, pushed it over so that it clicked against the krill. He tugged momentarily at his beard, then pulled himself to his feet. To Mhoram's gaze, he looked like a thin candle clogged with spilth — guttering, frail, and portionless.

“Yes,” he said. “Elena asked me the same thing. For all the good it'll do any of us. I'm coming.”

Awkwardly, he shambled out onto the burning floor.