“Prothall,” Tamarantha urged, “do not forbid. We are old—of course we are old. And the way will be long and hard. But this is the great challenge of our time—the only high and bold enterprise in which we will ever be able to share.”
“Is the defense of Revelstone then such a little thing?”
Variol jerked up his head as if Prothall’s question had been a gibe. “Revelstone remembers we have failed to retrieve any of Kevin’s Lore. What possible help can we be here? Osondrea is more than enough. Without this Quest, our lives will be wasted.”
“No, my Lords—no. Not wasted,” Prothall murmured. With a baffled expression, he looked to Mhoram for support. Smiling crookedly, Mhoram said, “Life is well designed. Men and women grow old so that someone will be wise enough to teach the young. Let them come.”
After another moment’s hesitation, Prothall decided. “Come, then. You will teach us all.”
Variol smiled up at Tamarantha, and she returned his gaze from the high back of the Ranyhyn. Their faces were full of satisfaction and calm expectancy, which they shared in the silent marriage of their eyes. Watching them, Covenant abruptly snatched up his horse’s reins and climbed into the saddle. His heart thudded anxiously, but almost at once the clingor gave him a feeling of security which eased his trepidation. Following the example of Prothall and Mhoram, he slid the staff under his left thigh, where it was held by the clingor. Then he gripped the mustang with his knees and tried not to fret.
The man who had been holding the horse touched Covenant’s knee to get his attention. “Her name is Dura—Dura Fairflank. Horses are rare in the Land. I have trained her well. She is as good as a Ranyhyn,” he boasted, then lowered his eyes as if embarrassed by his exaggeration.
Covenant replied gruffly, “I don’t want a Ranyhyn.”
The man took this as approval of Dura, and beamed with pleasure. As he moved away, he touched his palms to his forehead and spread his arms wide in salute.
From his new vantage, Covenant surveyed the company. There were no packhorses, but attached to every saddle were bags of provisions and tools, and Birinair had a thick bundle of lillianrill rods behind him. The Bloodguard were unencumbered, but Foamfollower carried his huge sack over his shoulder, and looked ready to travel as fast as any horse.
Shortly Prothall rose in his stirrups and called out over the company, “My friends, we must depart. The Quest is urgent, and the time of our trial presses upon us. I will not try to stir your hearts with long words, or bind you with awesome oaths. But I give you two charges. Be true to the limit of your strength. And remember the Oath of Peace. We go into danger, and perhaps into war—we will fight if need be. But the Land will not be served by angry bloodshed. Remember the Code:
Do not hurt where holding is enough;
do not wound where hurting is enough;
do not maim where wounding is enough;
and kill not where maiming is enough;
the greatest warrior is one who does not need to kill.”
Then the High Lord wheeled his mount to face Revelstone. He drew out his staff, swung it three times about his head, and raised it to the sky. From its end, a blue incandescent flame burst. And he cried to the Keep
“Hail, Revelstone!”
The entire population of the Keep responded with one mighty, heart-shaking shout:
“Hail!”
That myriad-throated paean sprang across the hills; the dawn air itself seemed to vibrate with praise and salutation. Several of the Ranyhyn nickered joyously. In answer, Covenant clenched his teeth against a sudden thickening in his throat. He felt unworthy.
Then Prothall turned his horse and urged it into a canter down the hillside. Swiftly the company swung into place around him. Mhoram guided Covenant to a position behind Prothall, ahead of Variol and Tamarantha. Four Bloodguard flanked the Lords on either side, Quaan, Tuvor, and Korik rode ahead of Prothall, and behind came Birinair and the Eoman. With a long, loping stride, Foamfollower pulled abreast of Mhoram and Covenant, where he jogged as easily as if such traveling were natural to him.
Thus the Quest for the Staff of Law left Lord’s Keep in the sunlight of a new day.
SIXTEEN: Blood-Bourne
Thomas Covenant spent the next three days in one long, acute discovery of saddle soreness. Sitting on thin leather, he felt as if he were riding bareback; the hard, physical fact of Dura’s spine threatened to saw him open. His knees felt as if they were being twisted out of joint; his thighs and calves ached and quivered with the strain of gripping his mount—a pain which slowly spread into and up his back; and his peck throbbed from the lash of Dura’s sudden lurchings as she crossed the obstacles of the terrain. At times, he remained on her back only because the clingor saddle did not let him fall. And at night his clenched muscles hurt so badly that he could not sleep without the benefit of diamondraught.
As a result, he noticed little of the passing countryside, or the weather, or the mood of the company. He ignored or rebuffed every effort to draw him into conversation. He was consumed by the painful sensation of being broken in half. Once again, he was forced to recognize the suicidal nature of this dream, of what the subconscious darkness of his mind was doing to him.
But the Giant’s diamondraught and the Land’s impossible health worked in him regardless of his suffering. His flesh grew tougher to meet the demands of Dura’s back. And without knowing it he had been improving as a rider. He was learning how to move with instead of resisting his mount. When he woke up after the third night, he found that physical hurting no longer dominated him.
By that time, the company had left behind the cultivated region around Revelstone, and had moved out into rough plains. They had camped in the middle of a rude flatland; and when Covenant began to look about him, the terrain that met his eyes was rocky and unpromising.
Nevertheless, the sense of moving forward reasserted itself in him, gave him once again the illusion of safety. Like so many other things, Revelstone was behind him. When Foamfollower addressed him, he was able to respond without violence.
At that, the Giant remarked to Mhoram, “Stone and Sea, my Lord! I believe that Thomas Covenant has chosen to rejoin the living. Surely this is the work of diamondraught. Hail, ur-Lord Covenant. Welcome to our company. Do you know, Lord Mhoram, there is an ancient Giantish tale about a war which was halted by diamondraught? Would you like to hear? I can tell it in half a day.”
“Indeed?” Mhoram chuckled. “And will it take only half a day if you tell it on the run, while we ride?”
Foamfollower laughed broadly. “Then I can be done by sunset tomorrow. I, Saltheart Foamfollower, say it.”
“I have heard that tale,” High Lord Prothall said. “But the teller assured me that diamondraught did not in fact end the conflict. The actual rein was Giantish talk. When the Giants were done asking after the causes of the war, the combatants had been listening so long that they had forgotten the answer.”
“Ali, High Lord,” Foamfollower chortled, “you misunderstand. It was the Giants who drank the diamondraught.”
Laughter burst from the listening warriors, and Prothall smiled as he turned to mount his horse. Soon the Quest was on its way, and Covenant fell into place beside Mhoram.
Now as he rode, Covenant listened to the traveling noises of the company. The Lords and Bloodguard were almost entirely silent, preoccupied; but over the thud of hooves, he could hear talk and snatches of song from the warriors. In Quaan’s leadership, they sounded confident and occasionally eager, as if they looked forward to putting their years of Sword training to the test.
Sometime later, Lord Mhoram surprised Covenant by saying without preamble, “Ur-Lord, as you know there were questions which the Council did not ask of you. May I ask them now? I should like to know more concerning your world.”
“My world.” Covenant swallowed roughly. He did not want to talk about it; he had no desire to repeat the ordeal of the Council. “Why?”
Mhoram shrugged. �
�Because the more I know of you, the better I will know what to expect from you in times of peril. Or because an understanding of your world may teach me to treat you rightly. Or because I have asked the question in simple friendship.”
Covenant could hear the candor in Mhoram’s voice, and it disarmed his refusals. He owed the Lords and himself some kind of honesty. But that debt was bitter to him, and he could not find any easy way to articulate all the things which needed saying. Instinctively he began to make a list. We have cancer, heart failure, tuberculosis, multiple sclerosis, birth defects, leprosy—we have alcoholism, venereal disease, drug addiction, rape, robbery, murder, child beating, genocide—but he could not bear to utter a catalog of woes that might run on forever. After a moment, he stood in his stirrups and gestured out over the ruggedness of the plains.
“You probably see it better than I do—but even I can tell that this is beautiful. It’s alive—it’s alive the way it should be alive. This kind of grass is yellow and stiff and thin—but I can see that it’s healthy. It belongs here, in this kind of soil. By hell! I can even see what time of year this is by looking at the dirt. I can see spring.
“Where I come from we don’t see—If you don’t know the annual cycles of the plants, you can’t tell the difference between spring and summer. If you don’t have a—have a standard of comparison, you can’t recognize—But the world is beautiful—what’s left of it, what we haven’t damaged.” Images of Haven Farm sprang irrefusably across his mind. He could not restrain the mordancy of his tone as he concluded, “We have beauty, too. We call it ‘scenery.’ ”
“ ‘Scenery,’ ” Mhoram echoed. “The word is strange to me—but I do not like the sound.”
Covenant felt oddly shaken, as if he had just looked over his shoulder and found himself standing too close to a precipice. “It means that beauty is something extra,” he rasped. “It’s nice, but we can live without it.”
“Without?” Mhoram’s gaze glittered dangerously.
And behind him Foamfollower breathed in astonishment, “Live without beauty? Ah, my friend! How do you resist despair?”
“I don’t think we do,” Covenant muttered. “Some of us are just stubborn.” Then he fell silent. Mhoram asked him no more questions, and he rode on chewing the gristle of his thoughts until High Lord Prothall called a rest halt.
As the day progressed, Covenant’s silence seemed slowly to infect the company. The traveling banter and singing of the Eoman faded gradually into stillness; Mhoram watched Covenant curiously askance, but made no effort to renew their conversation; and Prothall looked as night-faced as the Bloodguard. After a time, Covenant guessed the cause of their reticence. Tonight would be the first full of the bloody moon.
A shiver ran through him. That night would be a kind of test of Drool’s power. If the Cavewight could maintain his red hold even when the moon was full, then the Lords would have to admit that his might had no discernible limit. And such might would be spawning armies, would almost certainly have already produced marauders to feed Drool’s taste for pillage. Then the company would have to fight for passage. Covenant remembered with a shudder his brief meeting with Drool in the cavern of Kiril Threndor. Like his companions, he fell under the pall of what the night might reveal.
Only Variol and Tamarantha seemed untouched by the common mood. She appeared half-asleep, and rode casually, trusting the Ranyhyn to keep her on its back. Her husband sat erect, with a steady hand on his reins, but his mouth was slack and his eyes unfocused. They looked frail; Covenant felt that he could see the brittleness of their bones. But they alone of all the company were blithe against the coming night—blithe or uncomprehending.
The riders camped before dusk on the north side of a rough hill, partially sheltered from the prevailing southwest breeze. The air had turned cold like a revisitation of winter, and the wind carried a chill to the hearts of the travelers. In silence, some of the warriors fed and rubbed down the horses, while others cooked a spare meal over a fire that Birinair coaxed from one of his lillianrill rods and some scrub wood. The Ranyhyn galloped away together to spend the night in some secret play or rite, leaving the horses lobbied and the Bloodguard standing sentinel and the rest of the company huddled in their cloaks mound the fire. As the last of the sunlight scudded from the air, the breeze stiffened into a steady wind.
Covenant found himself wishing for some of the camaraderie that had begun the day. But he could not supply the lack himself; he had to wait until High Lord Prothall rose to meet the apprehension of the Quest.
Planting his staff firmly, he began to sing the Vespers hymn of Revelstone. Mhoram joined him, followed by Variol and Tamarantha, and soon the whole Eoman was on its feet, adding its many-throated voice to the song. There they stood under the stern sky, twenty-five souls singing like witnesses:
Seven hells for failed faith,
For Land’s betrayers, man and wraith:
And one brave Lord to deal the doom
To keep the blacking blight from Beauty’s
bloom.
They raised their voices bravely, and their melody was counterpointed by the tenor roll of Foamfollower’s plainsong. When they were done, they reseated themselves and began to talk together in low voices, as if the hymn were all they needed to restore their courage.
Covenant sat staring at his knotted hands. Without taking his eyes off them, he knew when moonrise came; he felt the sudden stiffening around him as the first crimson glow appeared on the horizon. But he gnawed on his lip and did not look up. His companions breathed tensely; a red cast slowly deepened in the heart of the fire; but he clenched his gaze as if he were studying the way his knuckles whitened.
Then he heard Lord Mhoram’s agonized whisper, “Melenkurion,” and he knew that the moon was full red, stained as if its defilement were complete—as bloody as if the night sky had been cut to the heart. He felt the light touch his face, and his cheek twitched in revulsion.
The next moment, there came a distant wail like a cry of protest. It throbbed like desolation in the chill air. In spite of himself, Covenant looked over the blood-hued plain; for an instant, he expected the company to leap to the relief of that call. But no one moved. The cry must have come from some animal. Glancing briefly at the full violated moon, he changed his grip and lowered his eyes again.
When his gaze reached his fingers, he saw in horror that the moonlight gave his ring a reddish cast. The metal looked as if it had been dipped in blood. Its inner silver struggled to show through the crimson, but the bloodlight seemed to be soaking inward, slowly quenching, perverting the white gold.
He understood instinctively. For one staggering heartbeat, he sat still, howled silent and futile warnings at his unsuspecting self. Then he sprang to his feet, erect and rigid as if he had been yanked upright by the moon—arms tight at his sides, fists clenched.
Behind him, Bannor said, “Do not fear, ur-Lord. The Ranyhyn will warn us if the wolves are any danger.”
Covenant turned his head. The Bloodguard reached a restraining hand toward him.
“Don’t touch me!” Covenant hissed.
He jerked away from Bannor. For an instant while his heart labored, he observed how the crimson moon made Bannor’s face look like old lava. Then a vicious sense of wrong exploded under his feet, and he pitched toward the fire.
As he struck the earth he flung himself onward, careless of everything but his intense visceral need to escape the attack. After one roll, his legs crashed among the flaming brands.
But as Covenant fell, Bannor sprang forward. When Covenant hit the fire, the Bloodguard was only a stride away. He caught Covenant’s wrist in almost the same instant, heaved him child-light out of the flames and onto his feet.
Even before he had regained his balance, Covenant spun on Bannor and yelled into the Bloodguard’s face, “Don’t touch me!”
Bannor released Covenant’s wrist, backed away a step.
Prothall, Mhoram, Foamfollower, and all the wards were on
their feet. They stared at Covenant in reprise, confusion, outrage.
He felt suddenly weak. His legs trembled; he gypped to his knees beside the fire. Thinking, Hell and bloody Foul has done it to me, he’s taking me over damnation! he pointed an unsteady finger at the ground that had stung him. “There,” he gasped. “It was there. I felt it.”
The Lords reacted immediately. While Mhoram shouted for Birinair, Prothall hurried forward and stooped over the spot Covenant indicated. Mumbling softly to himself, he touched the spot with the tips of his fingers like a physician testing a wound. Then he was joined by Mhoram and Birinair. Birinair thrust the High Lord aside, took his lillianrill staff and placed its end on the sore place. Rotating the staff between his palms, he concentrated imperiously on his beloved wood.
“For one moment,” Prothall murmured, “for one moment I felt something—some memory in the Earth. Then it passed beyond my touch.” He sighed. “It was terrible.”
Birinair echoed, “Terrible,” talking to himself in his concentration. Prothall and Mhoram watched him as his hands trembled with either age or sensitivity. Abruptly he cried, “Terrible! The hand of the Slayer! He dares do this?” He snatched himself away so quickly that he stumbled, and would have fallen if Prothall had not caught him.
Momentarily Prothall and Birinair met each other’s eyes as if they were trying to exchange some knowledge that could not be voiced. Then Birinair shook himself free. Looking about him as if he could see the shards of his dignity scattered around his feet, he mumbled gruffly, “Stand on my own. Not that old yet.” After a glance at Covenant, he went on more loudly, “You think I am old. Of course. Old and foolish. Push himself into a Quest when he should be resting his bones by the hearth. Like a lump.” Pointing toward the Unbeliever, he concluded, “Ask him. Ask.”
Covenant had climbed to his feet while the attention of the company was on the Hirebrand, and had pushed his hands into his pockets to hide the hue of his ring. As Birinair pointed at him, he raised his eyes from the ground. A sick feeling of presage twisted his stomach as he remembered his attacks in Andelain, and what had followed them.
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