Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  They passed around one foothill on the south side, and joined the road from the bridge below the lake. Eastward, the road worked almost straight up the side of a traverse ridge. The steepness of the climb made Foamfollower stumble several times, and he was barely strong enough to catch himself on the horses. But when he had labored up the ridge, he stopped, lifted up his head, spread his arms wide, and began to laugh. “There, my friend. Does that not answer you?” His voice was weak, but gay with refreshed joy.

  Ahead over a few lower hills was Lord’s Keep.

  The sight caught Covenant by surprise, almost took his breath away. Revelstone was a masterwork. It stood in granite permanence like an enactment of eternity, a timeless achievement formed of mere lasting rock by some pure, supreme Giantish participation in skill.

  Covenant agreed that Revelstone was too short a name for it.

  The eastern end of the plateau was finished by a broad shaft of rock, half as high as the plateau and separate from it except at the base, the first several hundred feet. This shaft had been hollowed into a tower which guarded the sole entrance to the Keep, and circles of windows rose up past the abutments to the fortified crown. But most of Lord’s Keep was carved into the mountain gutrock under the plateau.

  A surprising distance from the tower, the entire cliff face had been worked by the old Giants—sheered and crafted into a vertical outer wall for the city, which, Covenant later learned, filled this whole, wedge shaped promontory of the plateau. The wall was intricately labored—lined and coigned and serried with regular and irregular groups of windows, balconies, buttresses—orieled and parapeted—wrought in a prolific and seemingly spontaneous multitude of details which appeared to be on the verge of crystallizing into a pattern. But light flashed and danced on the polished cliff face, and the wealth of variation in the work overwhelmed Covenant’s senses, so that he could not grasp whatever pattern might be there.

  But with his new eyes he could see the thick, bustling, communal life of the city. It shone from behind the wall as if the rock were almost translucent, almost lit from within like a chiaroscuro by the life-force of its thousands of inhabitants. The sight made the whole Keep swirl before him. Though he looked at it from a distance, and could encompass it all—Furl Falls roaring on one side and the expanse of the plains reclining on the other—he felt that the old Giants had outdone him. Here was a work worthy of pilgrimages, ordeals. He was not surprised to hear Foamfollower whisper like a vestal, “Ah, Revelstone! Lord’s Keep! Here the Unhomed surpass their loss.”

  The Eoman responded in litany:

  Giant-troth Revelstone, ancient ward—

  Heart and door of Earthfriend’s main:

  Preserve the true with Power’s sword,

  Thou ages-Keeper, mountain-reign!

  Then the riders started forward again. Foamfollower and Covenant moved in wonder toward the looming walls, and the distance passed swiftly, unmarked except by the beat of their uplifted hearts. The road ran parallel to the cliff to its eastern edge, then turned up toward the tall doors in the southeast base of the tower. The gates—a mighty slab of rock on either side—were open in the free welcome of peace; but they were notched and beveled and balanced so that they could swing shut and interlock, closing like teeth. The entrance they guarded was large enough for the whole Eoman to ride in abreast.

  As they approached the gates, Covenant saw a blue flag flying high on the crown of the tower—an azure oriflamme only a shade lighter than the clear sky. Beneath it was a smaller flag, a red pennant the color of the bloody moon and Drool’s eyes. Seeing the direction of Covenant’s gaze, the woman near him said, “Do you know the colors? The blue is High Lord’s Furl, the standard of the Lords. It signifies their Oath and guidance to the peoples of the Land. And the red is the sign of our present peril. It will fly there while the danger lasts.”

  Covenant nodded without taking his eyes off the Keep. But after a moment he looked away from the flags down toward the entrance to Revelstone. The opening looked like a cave that plunged straight into the mountain, but he could see sunlight beyond it.

  Three sentries stood in an abutment over the gates. Their appearance caught Covenant’s attention; they did not resemble the riders of the Warward. They were like Stonedownors in size and build, but they were flat-faced and brown-skinned, with curly hair cropped short. They wore short ocher tunics belted in blue that appeared to be made of vellum, and their lower legs and feet were bare. Simply standing casual and unarmed on the abutment, they bore themselves with an almost feline balance and alertness; they seemed ready to do battle at an instant’s notice.

  When his Eoman was within call of the gate, Quaan shouted to the sentries; “Hail! First Mark Tuvor! How is it that the Bloodguard have become guest welcomers?”

  The foremost of the sentries responded in a voice that sounded foreign, awkward, as if the speaker were accustomed to a language utterly unlike the speech of the Land. “Giants and message-bearers have come together to the Keep.”

  “Well, Bloodguard,” Quaan returned in a tone of camaraderie, “learn your duties. The Giant is Saltheart Foamfollower, legate from Seareach to the Council of Lords. And the man, the message-bearer, is Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and stranger to the Land. Are their places ready?”

  “The orders are given. Bannor and Korik await.”

  Quaan waved in acknowledgment. With his warriors, he rode into the stone throat of Lord’s Keep.

  THIRTEEN: Vespers

  As he stepped between the balanced jaws, Covenant gripped his staff tightly in his left hand. The entrance was like a tunnel leading under the tower to an open courtyard between the tower and the main Keep, and it was lit only by the dim, reflected sunlight from either end. There were no doors or windows in the stone. The only openings were dark shafts directly overhead, which appeared to serve some function in Revelstone’s defenses. The hooves of the horses struck echoes off the smooth stone, filling the tunnel like a rumor of war, and even the light click of Covenant’s staff pranced about him as if shadows of himself were walking one hesitation step behind him down the Keep’s throat.

  Then the Eoman entered the sunlit courtyard. Here the native stone had been hollowed down to the level of the entrance so that a space nearly as wide as the tower stood open to the sky between high sheer walls. The court was flat and flagged, but in its center was a broad plot of soil out of which grew one old Gilden, and a small fountain sparkled on either side of the hoary tree. Beyond were more stone gates like those in the base of the tower, and they also were open. That was the only ground-level entrance to the Keep, but at intervals above the court, wooden crosswalks spanned the open space from the tower to crenellated coigns on the inner face of the Keep. In addition, two doors on either side of the tunnel provided access to the tower.

  Covenant glanced up the main Keep. Shadows lay within the south and east walls of the court, but the heights still gleamed in the full shine of the afternoon sun, and from his angle, Revelstone seemed tall enough to provide a foundation for the heavens. For a moment as he gazed, his awe made him wish that he were, like Foamfollower, an inheritor of Lord’s Keep—that he could in some way claim its grandeur for himself. He wanted to belong here. But as Revelstone’s initial impact on him passed, he began to resist the desire. It was just another seduction, and he had already lost too much of his fragile, necessary independence. He shut down his awe with a hard frown, pressed his hand against his ring. The fact that it was hidden steadied him.

  There lay the only hope that he could imagine, the only solution to his paradoxical dilemma. As long as he kept his ring secret, he could deliver his message to the Lords, satisfy his exigent need to keep moving, and still avoid dangerous expectations, demands of power that he could not meet. Foamfollower—and Atiaran, too, perhaps involuntarily—had given him a certain freedom of choice. Now he might be able to preserve himself—if he could avoid further seductions, and if the Giant did not reveal his secret.

  “Foamfollow
er,” he began, then stopped. Two men were approaching him and the Giant from the main Keep. They resembled the sentries. Their flat, unreadable faces showed no signs of youth or age, as if their relationship with time was somehow ambivalent; and they conveyed such an impression of solidity to Covenant’s eyes that he was distracted from the Giant. They moved evenly across the courtyard as if they were personified rock. One of them greeted Foamfollower, and the other strode toward Covenant.

  When he reached Covenant, he bowed fractionally and said, “I am Bannor of the Bloodguard. You are in my charge. I will guide you to the place prepared.” His voice was awkward, as if his tongue could not relax in the language of the Land, but through his tone Covenant heard a stiffness that sounded like distrust.

  It and the Bloodguard’s hard, imposing aura made him abruptly uneasy. He looked toward Foamfollower, saw him give the other Bloodguard a salute full of respect and old comradeship. “Hail, Korik!” Foamfollower said. “To the Bloodguard I bring honor and fealty from the Giants of Seareach. These are consequential times, and in them we are proud to name the Bloodguard among our friends.”

  Flatly Korik responded, “We are the Bloodguard. Your chambers have been made ready, so that you may rest. Come.”

  Foamfollower smiled. “That is well. My friend, I am very weary.” With Korik, he walked toward the gates.

  Covenant started after them, but Bannor barred his way with one strong arm. “You will accompany me,” the Bloodguard said without inflection.

  “Foamfollower!” Covenant called uncertainly. “Foamfollower! Wait for me.”

  Over his shoulder, the Giant replied, “Go with Bannor. Be at Peace.” He seemed to have no awareness of Covenant’s misapprehension; his tone expressed only grateful relief, as if rest and Revelstone were his only thoughts. “We will meet again—tomorrow.” Moving as if he trusted the Bloodguard implicitly, he went with Korik into the main Keep.

  “Your place is in the tower,” Bannor said.

  “In the tower? Why?”

  The Bloodguard shrugged. “If you question this, you will be answered. But now you must accompany me.

  For a moment, Covenant met Bannor’s level eyes, and read there the Bloodguard’s competence, his ability and willingness to enforce his commands. The sight sharpened Covenant’s anxiety still further. Even the eyes of Soranal and Baradakas when they had first captured him, thinking him a Raver, had not held such a calm and committed promise of coercion, violence. The Woodhelvennin had been harsh because of their habitual gentleness, but Bannor’s gaze gave no hint of any Oath of Peace. Daunted, Covenant looked away. When Bannor started toward one of the tower doors, he followed in uncertainty and trepidation.

  The door opened as they approached, and closed behind them, though Covenant could not see who or what moved it. It gave into an open-centered, spiral stairwell, up which Bannor climbed steadily until after a hundred feet or more he reached another door. Beyond it, Covenant found himself in a jumbled maze of passageways, stairs, doors that soon confused his sense of direction completely. Bannor led him this way and that at irregular intervals, up and down unmeasured flights of steps, along broad and then narrow corridors, until he feared that he would not be able to make his way out again without a guide. From time to time, he caught glimpses of other people, primarily Bloodguard and warriors, but he did not encounter any of them. At last, however, Bannor stopped in the middle of what appeared to be a blank corridor. With a short gesture, he opened a hidden door. Covenant followed him into a large living chamber with a balcony beyond it.

  Bannor waited while Covenant gave the room a brief look, then said, “Call if there is anything you require,” and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

  For a moment, Covenant continued to glance around him; he took a mental inventory of the furnishings so that he would know where all the dangerous corners, projections, edges were. The room contained a bed, a bath, a table arrayed with food, chairs—one of which was draped with a variety of apparel—and an arras on one wall. But none of these presented any urgent threat, and shortly his gaze returned to the door.

  It had no handle, knob, latch, draw-line—no means by which he could open it.

  What the hell—?

  He shoved at it with his shoulder, tried to grip it by the edges and pull; he could not budge the heavy stone.

  “Bannor!” With a wrench, his mounting fear turned to anger. “Bloody damnation! Bannor. Open this door!”

  Almost immediately, the stone swung inward. Bannor stood impassively in the doorway. His flat eyes were expressionless.

  “I can’t open the door,” Covenant snapped. “What is this? Some kind of prison?”

  Bannor’s shoulders lifted fractionally. “Call it what you choose. You must remain here until the Lords are prepared to send for you.”

  “ ‘Until the Lords are prepared.’ What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Just sit here and think?”

  “Eat. Rest. Do whatever you will.”

  “I’ll tell you what I will. I will not stay here and go crazy waiting for the good pleasure of those Lords of yours. I came here all the way from Kevin’s Watch to talk to them. I risked my—” With an effort, he caught himself. He could see that his fuming made no impression on the Bloodguard. He gripped his anger with both hands, and said stiffly, “Why am I a prisoner?”

  “Message-bearers may be friends or foes,” Bannor replied. “Perhaps you are a servant of Corruption. The safety of the Lords is in our care. The Bloodguard will not permit you to endanger them. We will be sure of you before we allow you to move freely.”

  Hellfire! Covenant swore. Just what I need. The room behind him seemed suddenly full of the dark, vulturine thoughts on which he had striven so hard to turn his back. How could he defend against them if he did not keep moving? But he could not bear to stand where he was with all his fears exposed to Bannor’s dispassionate scrutiny. He forced himself to turn around. “Tell them I don’t like to wait.” Trembling, he moved to the table and picked up a stoneware flask of springwine.

  When he heard the door close, he took a long draft like a gesture of defiance. Then, with his teeth clenched on the fine beery flavor of the springwine, he looked around the room again, glared about him as if he were daring dark specters to come out of hiding and attack.

  This time, the arras caught his attention. It was a thick, varicolored weaving, dominated by stark reds and sky blues, and after a moment’s incomprehension he realized that it depicted the legend of Berek Halfhand.

  Prominent in the center stood the figure of Berek in a stylized stance which combined striving and beatitude. And around this foreground were worked scenes encapsulating the Lord-Fatherer’s history—his pure loyalty to his Queen, the King’s greedy pursuit of power, the Queen’s repudiation of her husband, Berek’s exertions in the war, the cleaving of his hand, his despair on Mount Thunder, the victory of the FireLions. The effect of the whole was one of salvation, of redemption purchased on the very brink of ruin by rectitude—as if the Earth itself had intervened, could be trusted to intervene, to right the moral imbalance of the war.

  Oh, bloody hell! Covenant groaned. Do I have to put up with this?

  Clutching the stoneware flask as if it were the only solid thing in the room, he went toward the balcony.

  He stopped in the entryway, braced himself against the stone. Beyond the railing of the balcony was a fall of three or four hundred feet to the foothills. He did not dare step out to the railing; already a premonition of giddiness gnawed like nausea in his guts. But he made himself look outward long enough to identify his surroundings.

  The balcony was in the eastern face of the tower, overlooking a broad reach of plains. The late afternoon sun cast the shadow of the promontory eastward like an aegis, and in the subdued light beyond the shadow the plains appeared various and colorful. Bluish grasslands and plowed brown fields and new green crops intervaled each other into the distance, and between them sun-silvered threads of streams ran east and so
uth; the clustered spots of villages spread a frail web of habitation over the fields; purple heather and gray bracken lay in broadening swaths toward the north. To his right, Covenant could see far away the White River winding in the direction of Trothgard.

  The sight reminded him of how he had come to this place—of Foamfollower, Atiaran, Wraiths, Baradakas, a murdered Waynhim— A vertigo of memories gyred up out of the foothills at him. Atiaran had blamed him for the slaughter of the Wraiths. And yet she had forsworn her own just desire for retribution, her just rage. He had done her so much harm—

  He recoiled back into the chamber, stumbled to sit down at the table. His hands shook so badly that he could not drink from the flask. He set it down, clenched both fists, and pressed his knuckles against the hard ring hidden over his heart.

  I will not think about it.

  A scowl like a contortion of the skull gripped his forehead.

  I am not Berek.

  He locked himself there until the sound of dangerous wings began to recede, and the giddy pain in his stomach eased. Then he unclawed his stiff fingers. Ignoring their impossible sensitivity, he started to eat.

  On the table he found a variety of cold meats, cheeses, and fruits, with plenty of brown bread. He ate, deliberately, woodenly, like a puppet acting out the commands of his will, until he was no longer hungry. Then he stripped off his clothes and bathed, scrubbing himself thoroughly and scrutinizing his body to be sure he had no hidden wounds. He sorted through the clothing provided for him, finally donned a pale blue robe which he could tie closed securely to conceal his ring. Using Atiaran’s knife, he shaved meticulously. Then, with the same wooden deliberateness, he washed his own clothes in the bath and hung them on chair backs to dry. All the time, his thoughts ran to the rhythm of,