Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  He ate, blankly, swallowing food in chunks and taking more by the fistful. Then he wanted something to drink. He looked around, discovered Foamfollower standing nearby with a flagon of diamondraught dwarfed in his huge hand.

  Covenant took the flagon and drained it. Then he stood numbly still, waiting for the diamondraught’s effect.

  It came swiftly. Soon mist began to fill his head. His hearing seemed hollow, as if he were listening to Manhome from the bottom of a well. He knew that he was going to pass out—wanted hungrily to pass out—but before he lost consciousness, the hurt in his chest made him say, “Giant, I—I need friends.”

  “Why do you believe that you have none?”

  Covenant blinked, and saw everything that he had done in the Land. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then you do believe that we are real.”

  “What?” Covenant groped for the Giant’s meaning with hands which had no fingers.

  “You think us capable of not forgiving you,” Foamfollower explained. “Who would forgive you more readily than your dream?”

  “No,” the Unbeliever said. “Dreams—never forgive.”

  Then he lost the firelight and Foamfollower’s kind face, and stumbled into sleep.

  TWENTY: A Question of Hope

  He wandered wincing in sleep, expecting nightmares. But he had none. Through the vague rise and fall of his drifting—as if even asleep his senses were alert to the Land—he felt that he was being distantly watched. The gaze on him was anxious and beneficent; it reminded him of the old beggar who had made him read an essay on “the fundamental question of ethics.”

  When he woke up, he found that Manhome was bright with sunshine.

  The shadowed ceiling of the cave was dim, but light reflecting off the village floor seemed to dispel the oppressive weight of the stone. And the sun reached far enough into Manhome to tell Covenant that he had awakened early in the afternoon of a warm pre-summer day. He lay near the back of the cave in an atmosphere of stillness. Beside him sat Saltheart Foamfollower.

  Covenant closed his eyes momentarily. He felt he had survived a gauntlet. And he had an unfocused sense that his bargain was going to work. When he looked up again, he asked, “How long have I been asleep?” as if he had just been roused from the dead.

  “Hail and welcome, my friend,” returned the Giant. “You make my diamondraught appear weak. You have slept for only a night and a morning.”

  Stretching luxuriously, Covenant said, “Practice. I do so much of it—I’m becoming an expert.”

  “A rare skill,” Foamfollower chuckled.

  “Not really. There’re more of us lepers than you might think.” Abruptly he frowned as if he had caught himself in an unwitting violation of his promised forbearance. In order to avoid being taken seriously, he added in a lugubrious tone, “We’re everywhere.”

  But his attempt at humor only appeared to puzzle the Giant. After a moment, Foamfollower said slowly, “Are the others—‘Leper’ is not a good name. It is too short for such as you. I do not know the word, but my ears hear nothing in it but cruelty.”

  Covenant sat up and pushed off his blankets. “It’s not cruel, exactly.” The subject appeared to shame him. While he spoke, he could not meet Foamfollower’s gaze. “It’s either a meaningless accident—or a ‘just desert.’ If it were cruel, it would happen more often.”

  “More often?”

  “Sure. If leprosy were an act of cruelty—by God or whatever—it wouldn’t be so rare. Why be satisfied with a few thousand abject victims when you could have a few million?”

  “Accident,” Foamfollower murmured. “Just. My friend, you bewilder me. You speak with such haste. Perhaps the Despiser of your world has only a limited power to oppose its Creator.”

  “Maybe. Somehow I don’t think my world works that way.”

  “Yet you said—did you not?—that lepers are everywhere.”

  “That was a joke. Or a metaphor.” Covenant made another effort to turn his sarcasm into humor. “I can never tell the difference.”

  Foamfollower studied him for a long moment, then asked carefully, “My friend, do you jest?”

  Covenant met the Giant’s gaze with a sardonic scowl. “Apparently not.”

  “I do not understand this mood.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Covenant caught his chance to escape this conversation. “Let’s get some food. I’m hungry.”

  To his relief, Foamfollower began laughing gently. “Ah, Thomas Covenant,” he chuckled, “do you remember our river journey to Lord’s Keep? Apparently there is something in my seriousness which makes you hungry.” Reaching down to one side, he brought up a tray of bread and cheese and fruit, and a flask of springwine. And he went on laughing quietly while Covenant pounced on the food.

  Covenant ate steadily for some time before he began looking around. Then he was taken aback to find that the cave was profuse with flowers. Garlands and bouquets lay everywhere, as if overnight each Ramen had raised a garden thick with white columbines and greenery. The white and green eased the austerity of Manhome, covered the stone like a fine robe.

  “Are you surprised?” asked Foamfollower. “These flowers honor you. Many of the Ramen roamed all night to gather blooms. You have touched the hearts of the Ranyhyn, and the Ramen are not unamazed—or ungrateful. A wonder has come to pass for them—five score Ranyhyn offering to one man. The Ramen would not exchange such a sight for Andelain itself, I think. So they have returned what honor is in their power.”

  Honor? Covenant echoed.

  The Giant settled himself more comfortably, and said as if he were beginning a long tale, “It is sad that you did not see the Land before the Desecration. Then the Ramen might have shown you honor that would humble all your days. All matters were higher in that age, but even among the Lords there were few beauties to equal the great craft of the Ramen. ‘Marrowmeld,’ they called it—anundivian yajña, in the tongue of the Old Lords. Bone-sculpting it was. From vulture and time-cleaned skeletons on the Plains of Ra, the Ramen formed figures of rare truth and joy. In their hands—under the power of their songs—the bones bent and flowed like clay, and were fashioned curiously, so that from the white core of lost life the Ramen made emblems for the living. I have never beheld these figures, but the tale of them is preserved by the Giants. In the destitution and diminishment, the long generations of hunger and hiding and homelessness, which came to the Ranyhyn and the Ramen with the Desecration, the skill of marrowmeld was lost.”

  His voice faded as he finished, and after a moment he began to sing softly:

  Stone and Sea are deep in life—

  A silence of respectful attention surrounded him. The Winhomes near him had stopped to listen.

  A short time later, one of them waved out toward the glade, and Covenant, following the gesture, saw Lithe striding briskly across the fiat. She was accompanied by Lord Mhoram astride a beautiful roan Ranyhyn. The sight gladdened Covenant. He finished his springwine in a salute to Mhoram.

  “Yes,” said Foamfollower, noticing Covenant’s gaze, “much has occurred this morning. High Lord Prothall chose not to offer himself. He said that his old bones would better suit a lesser mount—meaning, I think, that he feared his ‘old bones’ would give affront to the Ranyhyn. But it would be well not to underestimate his strength.”

  Covenant heard a current of intimations running through Foamfollower’s words. Distantly he said, “Prothall is going to resign after this Quest—if it succeeds.”

  The Giant’s eyes grinned. “Is that prophecy?”

  Covenant shrugged. “You know as well as I do. He spends too much time thinking about how he hasn’t mastered Kevin’s Lore. He thinks he’s a failure. And he’s going to go on thinking that even if he gets the Staff of Law back.”

  “Prophecy, indeed.”

  “Don’t laugh.” Covenant wondered how he could explain the resonance of the fact that Prothall had refused a chance at the Ranyhyn. “Anyway, tell me about Mhor
am.”

  Happily Foamfollower said, “Lord Mhoram son of Variol was this day chosen by Hynaril of the Ranyhyn, who also bore Tamarantha Variol-mate. Behold! She is remembered with honor among the great horses. The Ramen say that no Ranyhyn has ever before borne two riders. Truly, an age of wonders has come to the Plains of Ra.”

  “Wonders,” Covenant muttered. He did not like to remember the fear with which all those Ranyhyn had faced him. He glared into his flask as if it had cheated him by being empty.

  One of the nearest Winhomes started toward him carrying a jug. He recognized Gay. She approached among the flowers, then stopped. When she saw that he was looking at her, she lowered her eyes. “I would refill your flagon,” she said, “but I fear to offend. You will consider me a child.”

  Covenant scowled at her. She affected him like a reproach, and he stiffened where he sat. With an effort that made him sound coldly formal, he said, “Forget last night. It wasn’t your fault.” Awkwardly he extended the flask toward her.

  She came forward, and poured out springwine for him with hands that shook slightly.

  He said distinctly, “Thank you.”

  She gazed at him widely for a moment. Then a look of relief filled her face, and she smiled.

  Her smile reminded him of Lena. Deliberately, as if she were a burden he refused to shirk, he motioned for her to sit down. She placed herself cross-legged at the foot of his bed, gleaming at the honor the Ringthane did her.

  Covenant tried to think of something to say to her; but before he found what he wanted, he saw Warhaft Quaan striding into Manhome. Quaan came toward him squarely, as if he were forging against Covenant’s gaze, and when he neared the Unbeliever, he waited only an instant before asking his question. “We were concerned. Life needs food. Are you well?”

  “Well?” Covenant felt that he was beginning to glow with his second flask of springwine. “Can’t you see? I can see you. You’re as sound as an oak.”

  “You are closed to us,” said Quaan, stolid with disapproval. “What we see is not what you are.”

  This ambiguous statement seemed to invite a mordant retort, but Covenant restrained himself. He shrugged, then said, “I’m eating,” as if he did not want to lay claim to too much health.

  Quaan seemed to accept this reply for what it was worth. He nodded, bowed slightly, and left.

  Watching him go, Winhome Gay breathed, “He dislikes you.” Her tone expressed awe at the Warhaft’s audacity and foolishness. She seemed to ask how he dared to feel as he did—as if Covenant’s performance the previous night had exalted him in her eyes to the rank of a Ranyhyn.

  “He has good reason,” answered Covenant flatly.

  Gay looked unsure. As if she were reaching out for dangerous knowledge, she asked quickly, “Because you are a—a ‘leper’?”

  He could see her seriousness. But he felt that he had already said too much about lepers. Such talk compromised his bargain. “No,” he said, “he just thinks I’m obnoxious.”

  At this, she frowned as if she could hear his complex dishonestly. For a long moment, she studied the floor as if she were using the stone to measure his duplicity. Then she got to her feet, filled Covenant’s flask to the brim from her jug. As she turned away, she said in a low voice, “You do consider me a child.” She walked with a defiant and fearful swing to her hips, as if she believed she was risking her life by treating the Ringthane so insolently.

  He watched her young back, and wondered at the pride of people who served horses—and at the inner conditions which made telling the truth so difficult.

  From Gay, his gaze shifted to the outer edge of Manhome, where Mhoram and Lithe stood together in the sunlight. They were facing each other—she nut brown and he blue-robed—and arguing like earth and sky. When he concentrated on them, he could make out what they were saying.

  “I will,” she insisted.

  “No, hear me,” Mhoram replied. “He does not want it. You will only cause pain for him—and for yourself.”

  Covenant regarded them uneasily out of the cool, dim cave. Mhoram’s rudder nose gave him the aspect of a man who faced facts squarely; and Covenant felt sure that indeed he did not want whatever Mhoram was arguing against.

  The dispute ended shortly. Manethrall Lithe swung away from Mhoram and strode into the recesses of the village. She approached Covenant and surprised him entirely by dropping to her knees, bowing her forehead to the stone before him. With her palms on the floor beside her head, she said, “I am your servant. You are the Ringthane, master of the Ranyhyn.”

  Covenant gaped at the back of her head. For an instant, he did not understand her; in his surprise, he could not conceive of any emotion powerful enough to make a Manethrall bow so low. His face felt suddenly full of shame. “I don’t want a servant,” he grated. But then he saw Mhoram frowning unhappily behind Lithe. He steadied himself, went on more gently, “The honor of your service is beyond me.”

  “No!” she averred without raising her head. “I saw. The Ranyhyn reared to you.”

  He felt trapped. There seemed to be no way to stop her from humiliating herself without making her aware of the humiliation. He had lived without tact or humor for such a long time. But he had promised to be forbearant. And in the distance he had traveled since Mithil Stonedown, he had tasted the consequences of allowing the people of the Land to treat him as if he were some kind of mythic figure. With an effort, he replied gruffly, “Nevertheless. I’m not used to such things. In my own world, I’m—just a little man. Your homage makes me uneasy.”

  Softly Mhoram sighed his relief, and Lithe raised her head to ask in wonder, “Is it possible? Can such worlds be, where you are not among the great?”

  “Take my word for it.” Covenant drank deeply from his flask.

  Cautiously, as if fearful that he did not mean what he had said, she climbed to her feet. She threw back her head and shook her knotted hair. “Covenant Ringthane, it shall be as you choose. But we do not forget that the Ranyhyn reared to you. If there is any service we may do, only let it be known. You may command us in all things that do not touch the Ranyhyn.”

  “There is one thing,” he said, staring at the mountain stone of the ceiling. “Give Llaura and Pietten a home.”

  When he glanced at Lithe, he saw that she was grinning. He snapped fiercely, “She’s one of the Heers of Soaring Woodhelven. And he’s just a kid. They’ve been through enough to earn a little kindness.”

  Gently Mhoram interposed, “Foamfollower has already spoken to the Manethralls. They have agreed to care for Llaura and Pietten.”

  Lithe nodded. “Such commands are easy. If the Ranyhyn did not challenge us more, we would spend most of our days in sleep.” Still smiling, she left Covenant and cantered out into the sun.

  Mhoram also was smiling. “You look—better, ur-Lord. Are you well?”

  Covenant returned his attention to his springwine. “Quaan asked me the same thing. How should I know? Half the time these days I can’t even remember my name. I’m ready to travel, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Good. We must depart as soon as may be. It is pleasant to rest here in safety. But we must go if we are to preserve such safeties. I will tell Quaan and Tuvor to make preparation.”

  But before the Lord could leave, Covenant said, “Tell me something. Exactly why did we come here? You got yourself a Ranyhyn—but we lost four or five days. We could’ve skipped Morinmoss.”

  “Do you wish to discuss tactics? We believe we will gain an advantage by going where Drool cannot expect us to go, and by allowing him time to respond to his defeat at Soaring Woodhelven. Our hope is that he will send out an army. If we arrive too swiftly, the army may still be in Mount Thunder.”

  Covenant resisted the plausibility of this. “You planned to come here long before we were attacked at Soaring Woodhelven. You planned it all along. I want to know why.”

  Mhoram met Covenant’s demand squarely, but his face tensed as if he did not expect Coven
ant to like his answer. “When we made our plans at Revelstone, I saw that good would come of this.”

  “You saw?”

  “I am an oracle. I see—occasionally.”

  “And?”

  “And I saw rightly”

  Covenant was not ready to push the question further. “It must be fun.” But there was little sarcasm in his tone, and Mhoram laughed. His laughter emphasized the kindness of his lips. A moment later, he was able to say without bitterness, “I would rather see more such good. There is so little in these times.”

  As the Lord walked away to ready the company, Foamfollower said, “My friend, there is hope for you.”

  “Forsooth,” Covenant sneered. “Giant, if I were as big and strong as you, there would always be hope for me.”

  “Why? Do you believe that hope is a child of strength?”

  “Isn’t it? Where do you get hope if you don’t get it from power? If I’m wrong—by hell! There’s a lot of lepers running around the world confused.”

  “How is power judged?” Foamfollower asked with a seriousness Covenant had not expected.

  “What?”

  “I do not like the way in which you speak of lepers. Where is the value of strength if your enemy is stronger?”

  “You assume there is some kind of enemy. I think that’s a little too easy. I would like nothing better than to blame it on someone else—some enemy who afflicted me. But that’s just another kind of suicide. Abdicate the responsibility to keep myself alive.”

  “Ah, alive,” Foamfollower countered. “No, consider further, Covenant. What value has power at all if it is not power over death? If you place hope on anything less, then your hope may mislead you.”

  “So?”

  “But the power over death is a delusion. There cannot be life without death.”

  Covenant recognized that this was a fact. But he had not expected such an argument from the Giant. It made him want to get out of the cave into the sunlight. “Foamfollower,” he muttered, climbing out of his bed, “you’ve been thinking again.” But he felt the intensity of Foamfollower’s gaze. “All right. So you’re right. Tell me, just where the hell do you get hope?”