“And is master of neither.”
“Master enough! Ask the Wraiths the extent of his might. Ask the moon.”
“Ask me,” growled Covenant, climbing slowly to his feet. For a moment he hesitated, torn between a fear of Drool and a dread of what would happen to him if the Lords did not go in search of the Staff. He had a vivid apprehension of the malice behind Drool’s Laval eyes. But the thought of the Staff decided him. He felt that he had gained an insight into the logic of his dream. The Staff had brought him to the Land; he would need the Staff to escape. “Ask me,” he said again. “Don’t you think I have a stake in this?”
The Lords did not respond, and Covenant was forced to carry the argument forward himself. In his brooding, he had been able to find only one frail hope. With an effort, he broached the subject. “According to you, Foul chose me. But he talked about me on Kevin’s Watch as if I had been chosen by someone else—‘my Enemy,’ he said. Who was he talking about?”
Thoughtfully the High Lord replied, “I do not know. We said earlier that we hoped there were other forces at work in your selection. Perhaps there were. A few of our oldest legends speak of a Creator—the Creator of the Earth—but we know nothing of such a being. We only know that we are mortal, but Lord Foul is not—in some way, he surpasses flesh.”
“The Creator,” Covenant muttered. “All right.” A disturbing memory of the old beggar who had accosted him outside the courthouse flared momentarily. “Why did he choose me?”
Prothall’s abnegate eyes did not waver. “Who can say? Perhaps for the very reasons that Lord Foul chooses you.”
That paradox angered Covenant, but he went on as if inspired by the contradiction, “Then this—Creator—also wanted you to hear Foul’s message. Take that into account.”
“There!” Osondrea pounced. “There is the lie I sought—the final bait. By raising the hope of unknown help, Lord Foul seeks to ensure that we will accept this mad quest.”
Covenant did not look away from the High Lord. He held Prothall’s eyes, tried to see beyond the wear of long asceticisms into his mind. But Prothall returned the gaze unflinchingly. The lines at the corners of his eyes seemed etched there by self-abrogation. “Lord Osondrea,” he said evenly, “does your study reveal any signs of hope?”
“Signs? Omens?” Her voice sounded reluctant in the Close. “I am not Mhoram. If I were, I would ask Covenant what dreams he has had in the Land. But I prefer practical hopes. I see but one: so little time has been lost. It is in my heart that no other combination of chance and choice could have brought Covenant here so swiftly.”
“Very well,” Prothall replied. His look, locked with Covenant’s, sharpened momentarily, and in it Covenant at last saw that the High Lord had already made his decision. He only listened to the debate to give himself one last chance to find an alternative. Awkwardly Covenant dropped his eyes, slumped in his chair. How does he do it? he murmured pointlessly to himself. Where does all this courage come from?
Am I the only coward—?
A moment later, the High Lord pulled his blue robe about him and rose to his feet. “My friends,” he said, his voice thick with rheum, “the time has come for decision. I must choose a course to meet our need. If any have thoughts which must be uttered, speak now.” No one spoke, and Prothall seemed to draw dignity and stature from the silence. “Hear then the will of Prothall son of Dwillian, High Lord by the choice of the Council—and may the Land forgive me if I mistake or fail. In this moment, I commit the future of the Earth.
“Lord Osondrea, to you and to the Lords Variol and Tamarantha I entrust the defenses of the Land. I charge you—do all which wisdom or vision suggest to preserve the life in our sworn care. Remember that there is always hope while Revelstone stands. But if Revelstone falls, then all the ages and works of the Lords, from Berek Heartthew to our generation, shall come to an end, and the Land will never know the like again.
“Lord Mhoram and I will go in search of Drool Rockworm and the Staff of Law. With us will go the Giant Saltheart Foamfollower, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, as many of the Bloodguard as First Mark Tuvor deems proper to spare from the defense of Revelstone, and one Eoman of the Warward. Thus we will not go blithe or unguarded into doom—but the main might of Lord’s Keep will be left for the defense of the Land if we fail.
“Hear and be ready. The Quest departs at first light.”
“High Lord!” protested Garth, leaping to his feet. “Will you not wait for some word from my scouts? You must brave Grimmerdhore to pass toward Mount Thunder If the Forest is infested by the servants of Drool or the Gray Slayer, you will have little safety until my scouts have found out the movements of the enemy.”
“That is true, Warmark,” said Prothall. “But how long will we be delayed?”
“Six days, High Lord. Then we will know how much force the crossing of Grimmerdhore requires.”
For some time, Mhoram had been sitting with his chin in his hands, staring absently into the graveling pit. But now he roused himself and said, “One hundred Bloodguard. Or every warrior that Revelstone can provide. I have seen it. There are ur-viles in Grimmerdhore—and wolves by the thousands. They hunt in my dreams.” His voice seemed to chill the air in the Close like a wind of loss.
But Prothall spoke at once, resisting the spell of Mhoram’s words. “No, Garth. We cannot delay. And the peril of Grimmerdhore is too great. Even Drool Rockworm must understand that our best road to Mount Thunder leads through the Forest and along the north of Andelain. No, we will go south—around Andelain, then east through Morinmoss to the Plains of Ra, before moving north to Gravin Threndor. I know—that seems a long way, full of needless leagues, for a Quest which must rue the loss of each day. But this southward way will enable us to gain the help of the Ramen. Thus all the Despiser’s olden foes will share in our Quest. And perhaps we will throw Drool out of his reckoning.
“No, my choice is clear. The Quest will depart tomorrow, riding south. That is my word. Let any who doubt speak now.”
And Thomas Covenant, who doubted everything, felt Prothall’s resolution and dignity so strongly that he said nothing.
Then Mhoram and Osondrea stood, followed immediately by Foamfollower; and behind them the assembly rushed to its feet. All turned toward High Lord Prothall, and Osondrea lifted up her voice to say, “Melenkurion Skyweir watch over you, High Lord. Melenkurion abatha! Preserve and prevail! Seed and rock, may your purpose flourish. Let no evil blind or ill assail—no fear or faint, no rest or joy or pain, assuage the grief of wrong. Cowardice is inexculpate, corruption unassoiled. Skyweir watch and Earthroot anneal. Melenkurion abatha! Minas mill khabaal!”
Prothall bowed his head, and the gallery and the Lords responded with one unanimous salute, one extending of arms in mute benediction.
Then in slow order the people began to leave the Close. At the same time, Prothall, Mhoram, and Osondrea departed through their private doors.
Once the Lords were gone, Foamfollower joined Covenant, and they moved together up the steps, followed by Bannor and Korik. Outside the Close, Foamfollower hesitated, considering something, then said, “My friend, will you answer a question for me?”
“You think I’ve got something left to hide?”
“As to that, who knows? The faery Elohim had a saying—’The heart cherishes secrets not worth the telling.’ Ah, they were a laughing people. But—”
“No,” Covenant cut in. “I’ve been scrutinized enough.” He started away toward his rooms.
“But you have not heard my question.”
He turned. “Why should I? You were going to ask what Atiaran had against me.”
“No, my friend,” replied Foamfollower, laughing softly. “Let your heart cherish that secret to the end of time. My question is this. What dreams have you had since you came to the Land? What did you dream that night in my boat?”
Impulsively Covenant answered, “A crowd of my people—real people—were spitting blood at me. And one of them said, �
�There is only one good answer to death.’ ”
“Only one? What answer is that?”
“Turn your back on it,” Covenant snapped as he strode away down the corridor. “Outcast it.” Foamfollower’s good natured humor echoed in his ears, but he marched on until he could no longer hear the Giant. Then he tried to remember the way to his rooms. With some help from Bannor, he found his suite and shut himself in, only bothering to light one torch before closing the door on the Bloodguard.
He found that in his absence someone had shuttered his windows against the fell light of the moon. Perversely he yanked one of them open. But the bloodscape hurt his eyes like the stink of a corpse, and he slammed the shutter closed again. Then for a long time before he went to bed he paced the floor, arguing with himself until fatigue overcame him.
When morning neared, and Bannor began shaking him awake, he resisted. He wanted to go on sleeping as if in slumber he could find absolution. Dimly he remembered that he was about to start on a journey far more dangerous than the one he had just completed, and his tired consciousness moaned in protest.
“Come,” said Bannor. “If we delay, we will miss the call of the Ranyhyn.”
“Go to hell,” Covenant mumbled. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“The Bloodguard do not sleep:”
“What?”
“No Bloodguard has slept since the Haruchai swore their Vow.”
With an effort, Covenant pulled himself into a sitting position. He peered blearily at Bannor for a moment, then muttered, “You’re already in hell.”
The alien flatness of Bannor’s voice did not waver as he replied, “You have no reason to mock us.”
“Of course not,” Covenant growled, climbing out of bed. “Naturally I’m supposed to enjoy having my integrity judged by someone who doesn’t even need sleep.”
“We do not judge. We are cautious. The Lords are in our care.”
“Like Kevin—who killed himself. And took just about everything else with him.” But as he made this retort, he felt suddenly ashamed of himself. In the firelight, he remembered the costliness of the Bloodguard’s fidelity. Wincing at the coldness of the stone floor, he said, “Forget it. I talk like that in self-defense. Ridicule seems to be—my only answer.” Then he hurried away to wash, shave, and get dressed. After a quick meal, he made sure of his knife and staff, and at last nodded his readiness to the Bloodguard.
Bannor led him down to the courtyard of the old Gilden tree. A haze of night still dimmed the air, but the stars were gone, and sunrise was clearly imminent. Unexpectedly he felt that he was taking part in something larger than himself. The sensation was an odd one, and he tried to reason it away as he followed Bannor through the tunnel, between the huge, knuckled tower gates, and out into the dawn.
There, near the wall a short distance to the right of the gate, was gathered the company of the Quest. The warriors of the Third Eoman sat astride their horses in a semicircle behind Warhaft Quaan, and to their left stood nine Bloodguard led by First Mark Tuvor. Within the semicircle were Prothall, Mhoram, and Saltheart Foamfollower. The Giant carried in his belt a quarterstaff as tall as a man, and wore a blue neck-scarf that fluttered ebulliently in the morning breeze. Nearby were three men holding three horses saddled in clingor. Above them all, the face of Revelstone was crowded with people. The dwellers of the mountain city thronged every balcony and terrace, every window. And facing the gathered company was Lord Osondrea. She held her head high as if she defied her responsibility to make her stoop.
Then the sun crested the eastern horizon. It caught the upper rim of the plateau, where burned the blue flame of warning; it moved down the wall until it lifted High Lord’s Furl out of the gloaming like the lighting of a torch. Next it revealed the red pennant, and then a new white flag.
Nodding up at the new flag, Bannor said, “That is for you, ur-Lord. The sign of white gold.” Then he went to take his place among the Bloodguard.
Silence rested on the company until the sunlight touched the ground, casting its gold glow over the Questers. As soon as the light reached her feet, Osondrea began speaking as if she had been waiting patiently for this moment, and she covered the ache in her heart with a scolding tone. “I am in no mood for the ceremony, Prothall. Call the Ranyhyn, and go. The folly of this undertaking will not be made less by delay and brave words. There is nothing more for you to say. I am well suited for my task, and the defense of the Land will not falter while I live. Go—call the Ranyhyn.”
Prothall smiled gently, and Mhoram said with a grin, “We are fortunate in you, Osondrea. I could not entrust any other with Variol my father and Tamarantha my mother.”
“Taunt me at your peril!” she snapped. “I am in no mood—no mood, do you hear?”
“I hear. You know that I do not taunt you. Sister Osondrea, be careful.”
“I am always careful. Now go, before I lose patience altogether.”
Prothall nodded to Tuvor; the ten Bloodguard turned and spread out, so that each faced into the rising sun with no one to obscure his view. One at a time, each Bloodguard raised a hand to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle which echoed off the wall of the Keep into the dawn air.
They whistled again, and then a third time, and each call sounded as fierce and lonely as a heart cry. But the last whistle was answered by a distant whinny and a low thunder of mighty hooves. All eyes turned expectantly eastward, squinted into the morning glory. For a long moment, nothing appeared, and the rumble of the earth came disembodied to the company, a mystic manifestation. But then the horses could be seen within the sun’s orb, as if they had materialized in skyfire.
Soon the Ranyhyn passed out of the direct line of the sun. There were ten of them—wild and challenging animals. They were great craggy beasts, deep-chested, proud-necked, with some of the delicacy of pure-blooded stock and some of the rough angularity of mustangs. They had long flying manes and tails, gaits as straight as plumb lines, eyes full of restless intelligence. Chestnuts, bays, roans, they galloped toward the Bloodguard.
Covenant knew enough about horses to see that the Ranyhyn were as individual as people, but they shared one trait: a white star marked the center of each forehead. As they approached, with the dawn burning on their backs, they looked like the Land personified—the essence of health and power.
Nickering and tossing their heads, they halted before the Bloodguard. And the Bloodguard bowed deeply to them. The Ranyhyn stamped their feet and shook their manes as if they were laughing affectionately at a mere human show of respect. After a moment Tuvor spoke to them. “Hail, Ranyhyn! Landriders and proud-bearers. Sun-flesh and sky-mane, we are glad that you have heard our call. We must go on a long journey of many days. Will you bear us?”
In response, a few of the horses nodded their heads, and several others pranced in circles like colts. Then they moved forward, each approaching a specific Bloodguard and nuzzling him as if urging him to mount. This the Bloodguard did, though the horses were without saddle or bridle. Riding bareback, the Bloodguard trotted the Ranyhyn in a circle around the company, and arrayed themselves beside the mounted warriors.
Covenant felt that the departure of the company was imminent, and he did not want to miss his chance. Stepping close to Osondrea, he asked, “What does it mean? Where did they come from?”
The Lord turned and answered almost eagerly, as if glad for any distraction, “Of course—you are a stranger. Now, how can I explain such a deep matter briefly? Consider—the Ranyhyn are free, untamed, and their home is in the Plains of Ra. They are tended by the Ramen, but they are never ridden unless they choose a rider for themselves. It is a free choice. And once a Ranyhyn selects a rider, it is faithful to that one though fire and death interdict.
“Few are chosen. Tamarantha is the only living Lord to be blessed with a Ranyhyn mount—Hynaril bears her proudly—though neither Prothall nor Mhoram have yet made the trial. Prothall has been unwilling. But I suspect that one of his reasons for journeying south is to
give Mhoram a chance to be chosen.
“No matter. Since the age of High Lord Kevin, a bond has grown up between the Ranyhyn and the Bloodguard. For many reasons, only some of which I can guess, no Bloodguard has remained unchosen.
“As to the coming here of the Ranyhyn today—that surpasses my explaining. They are creatures of Earthpower. In some way, each Ranyhyn knows when its rider will call—yes, knows, and never fails to answer. Here are Huryn, Brabha, Marny, and others. Ten days ago they heard the call which only reached our ears this morning—and after more than four hundred leagues, they arrive as fresh as the dawn. If we could match them, the Land would not be in such peril.”
As she had been speaking, Prothall and Mhoram had mounted their horses, and she finished while walking Covenant toward his mustang. Under the influence of her voice, he went up to the animal without hesitation. But when he put his foot in the stirrup of the clingor saddle he felt a spasm of reluctance. He did not like horses, did not trust them; their strength was too dangerous. He backed away, and found that his hands were trembling.
Osondrea regarded him curiously; but before she could say anything a bustle of surprise ran through the company. When he looked up, Covenant saw three old figures riding forward—the Lords Variol and Tamarantha, and Hearthrall Birinair. Tamarantha sat astride a great roan Ranyhyn mare with laughing eyes.
Bowing toward them from the back of his horse, High Lord Prothall said, “I am glad that you have come. We need your blessing before we depart, just as Osondrea needs your help.”
Tamarantha bowed in return, but there was a sly half-smile on her wrinkled lips. She scanned the company briefly. “You have chosen well, Prothall.” Then she brought her old eyes back to the High Lord. “But you mistake us. We go with you.”
Prothall began to object, but Birinair put in stoutly, “Of course. What else? A Quest without a Hirebrand, indeed!”
“Birinair,” said Prothall reprovingly, “surely our work for the Seareach Giants requires you.”
“Requires? Of course. As to that, why,” the Hirebrand huffed, “as to that—no. Shames me to say it. I have given all the orders. No. The others are abler. Have been for years.”
Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Page 29
