Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Several Cords murmured at the sight of the white gold, and one of the Manethralls said grimly, “It is true, then. He has returned.” When Kam told them what the wounded Ranyhyn had done, some recoiled in pained amazement, and others muttered angrily under their breath. Yet they all bowed to Covenant; the Ranyhyn had reared to him, and the Ramen could not refuse him welcome.

  Then the Winhomes, the Ramen who were too young or too old or too crippled to be Cords, moved away, and the three Manethralls Kam had mentioned earlier came forward to be introduced. When they had given their names, Manethrall Jain, the grim woman who had just spoken, asked Kam, “Was it necessary to admit the Giant?”

  “He’s my friend,” Covenant said at once. “And Bannor knows he can be trusted, even if the Bloodguard are too thickheaded to say such things out loud. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Saltheart Foamfollower.”

  “You honor me too much,” Foamfollower said wryly.

  The Manethralls weighed Covenant’s words as if his speech had more than one meaning. But Bannor said, “Saltheart Foamfollower shared the Quest for the Staff of Law with High Lord Prothall, ur-Lord Covenant, and Manethrall Lithe. At that time, he was worthy of trust. But I have seen many trusts fall into Corruption. Perhaps nothing of the old Giantish faith remains.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Covenant snapped.

  Bannor raised one eyebrow. “Have you seen The Grieve, ur-Lord? Has Saltheart Foamfollower told you what occurred in the Seareach home of the Giants?”

  “No.”

  “Then you have been too quick with your trust.”

  Covenant tightened his grip on himself. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “That is not my place. I do not offer to guide you to Ridjeck Thome.

  Covenant started to protest, but Foamfollower placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. In spite of the conflicting emotions which knotted the Giant’s forehead, smoldered dangerously in his cavernous eyesockets, his voice was steady as he said, “Is it the Ramen custom to keep their guests standing cold and hungry after a long journey?”

  Kam spat on the ground, but Manethrall Jain replied tautly, “No, that is not our custom. Behold.” She nodded toward the head of the canyon, where the Winhomes were busy around a large fire under the overhang of one of the pillars. “The food will be prepared soon. It is kresh meat, but you may eat it in safety—it has been cooked many times.” Then she took Lena’s arm and said, “Come. You have suffered at the sight of the Ranyhyn. Thus you share our pain. We will do what we can to restore you.” As she spoke, she guided Lena toward the fire.

  Covenant was seething with frustration and dread, but he could not refuse the warmth of the campfire; his flesh needed it too badly. His fingertips and knuckles had a frostbitten look in addition to their sick numbness, and he knew that if he did not tend his feet soon he would be in danger of blood poisoning and gangrene. The effort of self-command hurt him, yet he followed Lena and Jain to the fire. As quietly as he could, he asked one of the Winhomes for hot water in which to bathe his feet.

  Despite his numbness, the soaking of his feet gave him relief. The hot water helped the fire’s warmth thaw out his bones. And his feet were not as badly damaged as he had feared they would be. Both were swollen with infection, but the harm was no worse than it had been several days ago. For some reason, his flesh was resisting the illness. He was glad to discover that he was in no immediate danger of losing his feet.

  A short time later, the food was ready. Kam’s seven Cords sat cross-legged around the fire with the four Manethralls, Bannor, Foamfollower, Lena, and Covenant, and the Winhomes set dry, brittle banana leaves in front of them as plates. Covenant found himself positioned between Lena and Bannor. A lame man muttering dimly to himself served the three of them stew and hot winter potatoes. Covenant did not relish the idea of eating kresh—he expected to find the meat rank and stringy—but it had been cooked so long, with such potent herbs, that only a faint bitterness remained. And it was hot. His appetite for heat seemed insatiable. He ate as if he could see long days of cold, scarce provender ahead of him.

  He had good reason. Without help, he and his companions would not be able to find enough food for the journey to Foul’s Creche. He seemed to remember having heard somewhere that aliantha did not grow in the Spoiled Plains. The hostility of the Ramen boded ill for him in more ways than one.

  Though he was afraid of it, he knew he would have to penetrate to the bottom of that hostility.

  He looked for an antidote to fear in food, but while he chewed and thought, he was interrupted by a strange man who strode unexpectedly into the covert. The man entered at the far end of the canyon, and moved directly, deliberately, toward the seated men and women. His dress vaguely resembled that of the Ramen; he used the same materials to make his thin shirt and pants, his cloak. But he wore the cloak hanging from his shoulders in a way that affected his freedom of movement more than any Ramen would have tolerated. And he bore no cords anywhere about him. Instead of a Ramen garrote, he carried a short spear like a staff in one hand; and under his belt he wore a sharp wooden stave.

  Despite the directness with which he approached, he created an impression of uncomfortable daring, as if he had some reason to believe that the Ramen might jeer at him. His gaze flicked fearfully about him, jumping away from rather than toward what he saw.

  He had an air of blood about him that Covenant could not explain. He was clean, uninjured; neither spear nor spike showed recent use. Yet something in him spoke of blood, of killing and hunger. As the man reached the fire, Covenant realized that all the Ramen were sitting stiffly in their places—not moving, not eating, not looking at the stranger. They knew this man in a way that gave them pain.

  After a moment, the man said aggressively, “Do you eat without me? I, too, need food.”

  Manethrall Jain’s eyes did not raise themselves from the ground. “You are welcome, as you know. Join us or take what food you require.”

  “Am I so welcome? Where are the salutes and words of greeting? Pah! You do not even gaze at me.”

  But when Kam glared up from under his angry brows at the stranger, the man winced and looked away.

  Jain said softly, “You have drunk blood.”

  “Yes!” the man barked rapidly. “And you are offended. You understand nothing. If I were not the best runner and Ranyhyn-tender in the Plains of Ra, you would slay me where I stand without a moment’s concern for your promises.”

  Darkly Kam muttered, “We are not so swift to forget promises.”

  The stranger took no notice of Kam’s assertion. “Now I see guests among you. The Ringthane himself. And a Giant”—he drawled acerbically—“if my eyes do not mistake. Are Ravers also welcome?”

  Covenant was surprised to hear Bannor speaking before either Jain or Kam could reply. “He is Saltheart Foamfollower.” The Bloodguard’s alien inflection carried an odd note of intensity, as if he were communicating a crucial fact.

  “Saltheart Foamfollower!” the stranger jeered. But he did not meet the Giant’s gaze. “Then you are already certain that he is a Raver.”

  Kam said, “We are uncertain.”

  Still the man ignored him. “And the Ringthane—the tormentor of horses. Does he also Rave? He holds his proper place—at the right hand of a Bloodguard. This is a proud feast—all the crudest foes of the Ranyhyn together. And welcome!”

  At this, Jain’s tone tightened. “You also are welcome. Join us—or take what food you require and go.”

  A Winhome moved hesitantly toward the stranger, carrying a leaf laden with food. He caught it from her hands brusquely. “I will go. I hear your heart deny your words. I am not proud or welcome enough to eat with such as these.” At once, he turned sarcastically on his heel, strode back the way he had come. Moments later, he had left the covert as abruptly as he had entered.

  Covenant stared uncomprehendingly after him, then looked toward the Manethralls for some explanation. But they sat glowe
ring at their food as if they could not meet either his eyes or each other’s. Foamfollower also showed no understanding of what had happened. Lena had not noticed it; she was half asleep where she sat. Covenant turned to Bannor.

  The Bloodguard faced Covenant’s question squarely, answered it with the same dispassionate intensity. “He is Pietten.”

  “Pietten,” Covenant repeated dismally. And Foamfollower echoed thickly, “Pietten!”

  “He and the Heer Llaura were saved by the Quest for the Staff of Law at the battle of Soaring Woodhelven. Do you remember? Llaura and the child Pietten were damaged—”

  “I remember,” Covenant answered bitterly. “The ur-viles did something to them. They were used to bait the trap. She—she—” The memory appalled him. Llaura had been horribly abused, and all her great courage had not sufficed to overcome what had been done to her. And the child, Pietten—the child, too, had been abused.

  Across Covenant’s dismay, Foamfollower said, “We bore both Heer Llaura and Pietten to the Plains of Ra and Manhome.” Covenant remembered that the Giant had carried Pietten in his arms. “There, at the request of the Ringthane and—and myself—the Ramen took Llaura and Pietten into their care.”

  Bannor nodded. “That is the promise of which he spoke.”

  “Llaura?” asked Covenant weakly.

  “While Pietten was yet young she died. The harm done to her cut short her years.”

  “And Pietten?” Foamfollower pursued. “What did the ur-viles do to him?”

  Manethrall Kam broke his silence to mutter, “He is mad.”

  But Jain countered grimly, “He is the best runner and Ranyhyn-tender in the Plains of Ra—as he said.”

  “He serves the Ranyhyn,” Banner added. “He cares for them as entirely as any Manethrall. But there is”—he searched briefly for a description—“a ferocity in his love. He—”

  “He liked the taste of blood,” Covenant interrupted. In his memory, he could see Pietten—hardly more than four years old—under the crimson light of the sick moon. Pietten had smeared his hands on the bloody grass, then licked his fingers and smiled.

  Bannor agreed with a nod.

  “He licks the wounds of the Ranyhyn to clean them!” Kam snapped in horror.

  “Because of his great skill with the Ranyhyn,” Bannor went on, “and because of old promises made in the days of the Quest, the Ramen share their lives and work with him. But he is feared for his wildness. Therefore he lives alone. And he abuses the Ramen as if they have outcast him.”

  “Yet he fights,” Jain breathed a moment later. “I have seen that spear slay three kresh in their very death hold on a Ranyhyn.”

  “He fights,” Kam murmured. “He is mad.”

  Covenant took a deep breath as if he were trying to inhale courage. “And we’re responsible—Foamfollower and I—we’re the ones who gave him to you, so we’re responsible. Is that it?”

  At the sound of his voice, Lena stirred, blinked wearily, and Foamfollower said, “No, my friend.”

  But Manethrall Jain answered in a haunted voice, “The Ranyhyn have chosen you. We do not ask you to save them.”

  And Kam added, “You may call that pride if you wish. The Ranyhyn are worthy of all pride.”

  “And the responsibility is mine,” Foamfollower said in a tone of pain that made Covenant’s hearing ache. “The blame is mine. For after the battle of Soaring Woodhelven—when all the Quest knew that some nameless harm had been done to the child—it was I who denied to him the hurtloam which might have healed him.”

  This also Covenant remembered. Stricken by remorse for all the Cavewights he had slain, Foamfollower had used the last of the hurtloam to ease one of the wounded creatures rather than to treat Pietten. In protest against the Giant’s self-judgment, Covenant said, “You didn’t deny it. You—”

  “I did not give it.” Foamfollower’s response was as final as an ax.

  “Oh, hell!” Covenant glared around the group, searching for some way in which to grasp the situation. But he did not find it.

  He had unintentionally roused Lena. She pulled herself erect, and asked, “Beloved, what is amiss?”

  Covenant took her hand in his numb fingers. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on here.”

  “My Queen,” Foamfollower interposed. He wiped his mouth, set aside the leaves which had held his meal, then climbed to his feet. Towering over the circle of Ramen, he stepped forward to stand beside the fire. “My Queen, our difficulty is that the Ramen misdoubt me. They have spoken their respect for you, Lena Atiaran-daughter, and their acceptance of ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and Ringthane. But me they distrust.”

  Lena looked up at him. “Then they are fools,” she said with dignity.

  “No.” Foamfollower smiled wanly. “It is true that I have been a guest at Manhome, and a companion of Manethrall Lithe on the Quest for the Staff of Law. And it is true that Bannor of the Bloodguard has known me. We fought together at the battle of Soaring Woodhelven. But they are not fools. They suffer a doom of Giants, and their distrust must be respected.”

  He turned to the four Manethralls. “Yet, though I acknowledge your doubt, it is hard for me to bear. My heart urges me to leave this place where I am not trusted. You could not easily stop me. But I do not go. My thoughts urge me to turn to my friend Thomas Covenant. Perhaps he would compel you to accept me. But I do not ask this of him. I must bring your acceptance upon myself. I will strive to meet your doubt—so that the enemies of the Despiser, Soulcrusher and Fangthane, may not be divided against themselves. Ask anything that you require.”

  The Manethralls looked sharply at each other, and Covenant felt the atmosphere over the gathering tighten. The Giant’s face was ominously calm, as if he recognized a personal crisis and understood how to meet it. But Covenant did not understand. The hostility of the Ramen continued to amaze him. He ached to jump to the Giant’s defense.

  He refrained because he saw why Foamfollower wanted to prove himself—and because he had a fascinated, fearful desire to see how the Giant would do it.

  After a wordless consultation with the other Manethralls, Jain got to her feet and confronted Foamfollower across the fire. Unbidden, Bannor joined her. They regarded the Giant gravely for a long moment. Then Jain said, “Saltheart Foamfollower, the Render is cunning in malice. To discover him in all his secret treacheries requires an equal cunning. The Ramen have no such cunning. How is it possible for us to test you?”

  “Inquire of my past,” Foamfollower responded evenly. “I was absent from Giant-wrought Coercri when the Ravers put their hands upon my kindred. Since that time, I have roved the Land, striking—slaying marauders. I have fought at the side of the Stonedownors in defense of their homes. I—”

  “They had creatures which destroyed stone!” Lena cut in with sudden vehemence. “Their great, cruel arms tore our homes to rubble. Without the Giant’s strength, we could not have preserved one rock upright.”

  “Lena.” Covenant wanted to applaud, cheer her affirmation, but he stopped her gently, squeezed her arm until she turned her angry gaze toward him. “He doesn’t need our help,” he said as if he were afraid her ire might break the frail bones of her face. “He can answer for himself.”

  Slowly her anger turned to pain. “Why do they torment us? We seek to save the Ranyhyn also. The Ranyhyn trust us.”

  Covenant steadied her as best he could. “They’ve suffered. They’ve got to answer for themselves too.”

  “I also shared somewhat in the returning of Thomas Covenant to the Land,” Foamfollower continued. “He would not sit here now, purposing to aid the Land, had I not given of my strength.”

  “That does not suffice,” said Jain sternly. “The Render would not hesitate to kill his own for the sake of a larger goal. Perhaps you served the Stonedownors and the summoning so that this white gold might fall into Fangthane’s hands.”

  “And you have not given an account of The Grieve.”
Bannor’s voice was soft, withdrawn, as if the question he raised were perilous.

  But Foamfollower turned such issues aside with a jerk of his massive head. “Then discount my past—discount the scars of risk which cover my flesh. It is possible that I am a tool of the Despiser. Inquire of what you see. Behold me. Do you truly believe that a Raver might disguise himself within me?”

  “How can we answer?” Jain muttered. “We have never seen you hale.”

  But Foamfollower was facing Bannor now, addressing his question to the Bloodguard.

  Evenly, objectively, Bannor replied, “Giant, you do not appear well. Many things are obscured in this winter—but you do not appear well. There is a lust in you that I do not comprehend. It has the look of Corruption.”

  The Manethralls nodded in sharp agreement.

  “Bannor!” Foamfollower breathed intently. His stiff calm broke momentarily, and a pang of anguish twisted his countenance. “Do not damn me with such short words. It may be that I too much resemble Pietten. I have struck blows that I cannot call back or prevent. And you have seen—there is the blood of Giants upon my head.”

  The blood of Giants? Covenant moaned. Foamfollower!

  The next instant, Foamfollower regained mastery of himself. “But you have known me, Bannor. You can see that it is not my intent to serve the Despiser. I could not—!” The words ripped themselves savagely past his lips.

  “I have known you,” Bannor agreed simply. “In what way do I know you now?”

  The Giant’s hands twitched as if they were eager for a violent answer, but he kept his steadiness. Without dropping Bannor’s gaze, he knelt by the fire. Even then he was taller than Bannor or Manethrall Jain. His muscles tensed as he leaned forward, and the orange firelight echoed dangerously out of the dark caves of his eyes.

  “You have seen the caamora, Bannor,” he said tightly, “the Giantish ritual fire of grief. You have seen its pain. I am not prepared—this is not my time for such rituals. But I will not withdraw until you acknowledge me, Bannor of the Bloodguard.”