Lord Foul's Bane cotc-1

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Mock you?” Covenant could not find the words to respond. He chopped dumbly at the thought with his halfhand. “It's the other way around. He's mocking me.” When all the Lords looked at him in incomprehension, he cried abruptly, “I can feel the pulse in my fingertips! But that's impossible. I've got a disease. An incurable disease. I've-I've got to figure out a way to keep from going crazy. Hell and blood! I don't want to lose my mind just because some perfectly decent character in a dream needs something from me that I can't produce.”

  “Well, that may be.” Prothall's voice held a note of sadness and sympathy, as if he were listening to some abrogation or repudiation of sanity from a revered seer. “But we will trust you nonetheless. You are bitter, and bitterness is a sign of concern. I trust that. And what you say also meets the old prophecy. I fear the time is coming when you will be the Land's last hope.”

  “Don't you understand?” Covenant groaned, unable to silence the ache in his voice. “That's what Foul wants you to think.”

  “Perhaps,” Mhoram said thoughtfully. “Perhaps.” Then, as if he had reached a decision, he turned the peril of his gaze straight at Covenant. “Unbeliever, I must ask you if you have resisted Lord Foul. I do not speak of the Celebration. When he bore you from Drool Rockworm to Kevin's Watch-did you oppose him?”

  The question made Covenant feel abruptly frail, as if it had snapped a cord of his resistance. “I didn't know how.” Wearily, he reseated himself in the loneliness of his chair. “I didn't know what was happening.”

  “You are ur-Lord now,” murmured Mhoram. “There is no more need for you to sit there.”

  “No need to sit at all,” amended Prothall, with sadden briskness. “There is much work to be done. We must think and probe and plan-whatever action we will take in this trial must be chosen quickly. We will meet again tonight. Tuvor, Garth, Birinair, Tohrm-prepare yourselves and those in your command. Bring whatever thoughts of strategy you have to the Council tonight. And tell all the Keep that Thomas Covenant has been named ur-Lord. He is a stranger and a guest. Birinair-begin your work for the Giants at once. Bannor, I think the ur-Lord need no longer stay in the tower.” He paused and looked about him, giving everyone a chance to speak. Then he turned and left the Close. Osondrea followed him, and after giving Covenant another formal salute, Mhoram also departed.

  Numbly, Covenant moved behind Bannor up through the high passages and stairways until they reached his new quarters. The Bloodguard ushered him into a suite of rooms. They were high-ceilinged, lit by reflected sunlight through several broad windows, abundantly supplied with food and springwine, and unadorned. When Bannor had left, Covenant looked out one of the windows, and found that his rooms were perched in the north wall of Revelstone, with a view of the rough plains and the northward-curving cliff of the plateau. The sun was overhead, but a bit south of the Keep, so that the windows were in shadow.

  He left the window, moved to the tray of food, and ate a light meal. Then he poured out a flask of springwine, which he carried into the bedroom. There he found one orieled window. It had an air of privacy, of peace.

  Where did he go from here? He did not need to be self-wise or prophetic to know that he could not remain in Revelstone. He was too vulnerable here.

  He sat down in the stone alcove to brood over the Land below and wonder what he had done to himself.

  Fifteen: The Great Challenge

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

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

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

  “No use?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Grimacing uselessly, Covenant went on into the Close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Garth bowed and sat down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And is master of neither.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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