Thomas Covenant 01: Lord Foul's Bane Page 24

  I will not—

  I am not—

  While he worked, evening drifted westward over Revelstone, and when he was done he set a chair in the entrance to the balcony so that he could sit and watch the twilight without confronting the height of his perch. But darkness appeared to spread outward from the unlit room behind him into the wide world, as if his chamber were the source of night. Before long, the empty space at his back seemed to throng with carrion eaters.

  He felt in the depths of his heart that he was becoming frantic to escape this dream.

  The knock at his door jolted him, but he yanked his way through the darkness to answer it. “Come—come in.” In momentary confusion, he groped for a handle which was not there. Then the door opened to a brightness that dazzled him.

  At first, all he could see were three figures, one back against the wall of the outer corridor and two directly in the doorway. One of them held a flaming wooden rod in either hand, and the other had each arm wrapped around a pot of graveling. The dazzle made them appear to loom toward him out of a penumbra, and he stepped back, blinking rapidly.

  As if his retreat were a welcome, the two men entered his room. From behind them a voice curiously rough and gentle said, “May we come in? I am Lord Mhoram—”

  “Of course,” the taller of the two men interrupted in a voice veined and knuckled with old age. “He requires light, does he not? Darkness withers the heart. How can he receive light if we do not come in? Now if he knew anything, he could fend for himself. Of course. And he will not see much of us. Too busy. There is yet Vespers to attend to. The High Lord may have special instructions. We are late as it is. Because he knows nothing. Of course. But we are swift. Darkness withers the heart. Pay attention, young man. We cannot afford to return merely to redeem your ignorance.”

  While the man spoke, jerking the words like lazy servants up off the floor of his chest, Covenant’s eyes cleared. Before him, the taller man resolved into an erect but ancient figure, with a narrow face and a beard that hung like a tattered flag almost to his waist. He wore a Woodhelvennin cloak bordered in blue, and a circlet of leaves about his head.

  His immediate companion appeared hardly older than a boy. The youth was clad in a brown Stonedownor tunic with blue woven like epaulets into the shoulders, and he had a clean, merry face. He was grinning at the old man in amusement and affection.

  As Covenant studied the pair, the man behind them said admonishingly, “He is a guest, Birinair.” The old man paused as if he were remembering his manners, and Covenant looked past him at Lord Mhoram. The Lord was a lean man about Covenant’s height. He wore a long robe the color of High Lord’s Furl, with a pitch-black sash, and held a long staff in his right hand.

  Then the old man cleared his throat. “Ah, very well,” he fussed. “But this uses time, and we are late. There is Vespers to be made ready. Preparations for the Council. Of course. You are a guest. Be welcome. I am Birinair, Hirebrand of the lillianrill and Hearthrall of Lord’s Keep. This grinning whelp is Tohrm, Gravelingas of the rhadhamaerl and likewise Hearthrall of Lord’s Keep. Now harken. Attend.” In high dignity, he moved toward the bed. Above it in the wall was a torch socket. Birinair said, “These are made for ignorant young men like yourself,” and set the burning end of one rod in the socket. The flame died; but when he removed the rod, its fire returned almost at once. He placed the unlit end in the socket, then moved across the chamber to fix his other rod in the opposite wall.

  While the Hirebrand was busy, Tohrm set one of his graveling pots down on the table and the other on the stand by the washbasin. “Cover them when you wish to sleep,” he said in a light voice.

  When he was done, Birinair said, “Darkness with the heart. Beware of it, guest.”

  “But courtesy is like a drink at a mountain stream,” murmured Tohrm, grinning as if at a secret joke.

  “It is so.” Birinair turned and left the room. Tohrm paused to wink at Covenant and whisper, “He is not as hard a taskmaster as you might think.” Then he, too, was gone, leaving Covenant alone with Lord Mhoram.

  Mhoram closed the door behind him, and Covenant got his first good look at one of the Lords. Mhoram had a crooked, humane mouth, and a fond smile for the Hearthralls lingered on his lips. But the effect of the smile was counterbalanced by his eyes. They were dangerous eyes—gray-blue irises flecked with gold—that seemed to pierce through subterfuge to the secret marrow of premeditation in what they beheld—eyes that seemed themselves to conceal something potent and unknown, as if Mhoram were capable of surprising fate itself if he were driven to his last throw. And between his perilous eyes and kind mouth, the square blade of his nose mediated like a rudder, steering his thoughts.

  Then Covenant noticed Mhoram’s staff. It was metal-shod like the Staff of Law, which he had glimpsed in Drool’s spatulate fingers, but it was innocent of the carving that articulated the Staff. Mhoram held it in his left hand while he gave Covenant the salute of welcome with his right. Then he folded his arms on his chest, holding the staff in the crook of his elbow.

  His lips twisted through a combination of amusement, diffidence, and watchfulness as he spoke. “Let me begin anew. I am Lord Mhoram son of Variol. Be welcome in Revelstone, Thomas Covenant, Unbeliever and message-bearer. Birinair is Hearthrall and chief lillianrill of Lord’s Keep—but nevertheless there is time before Vespers. So I have come for several reasons. First to bid you welcome, second to answer the questions of a stranger in the Land—and last to inquire after the purpose which brings you to the Council. Pardon me if I seem formal. You are a stranger, and I know not how to honor you.”

  Covenant wanted to respond. But he still felt confused by darkness; he needed time to clear his head. He blinked at the Lord for a moment, then said to fill the silence, “That Bloodguard of yours doesn’t trust me.”

  Mhoram smiled wryly. “Bannor told me that you believe you have been imprisoned. That is also why I determined to speak with you this evening. It is not our custom to examine guests before they have rested. But I must say a word or two concerning the Bloodguard. Shall we be seated?” He took a chair for himself, sitting with his staff across his knees as naturally as if it were a part of him.

  Covenant sat down by the table without taking his eyes off Mhoram. When he was settled, the Lord continued: “Thomas Covenant, I tell you openly—I assume that you are a friend—or at least not an enemy—until you are proven. You are a guest, and should be shown courtesy. And we have sworn the Oath of Peace. But you are as strange to us as we to you. And the Bloodguard have spoken a Vow which is not in any way like our Oath. They have sworn to serve the Lords and Revelstone—to preserve us against any threat by the strength of their fidelity.” He sighed distantly. “Ah, it is humbling to be so served—in defiance of time and death. But let that pass. I must tell you two things. Left to the dictates of their Vow, the Bloodguard would slay you instantly if you raised your hand against any Lord—yes, against any inhabitant of Revelstone. But the Council of Lords has commanded you to their care. Rather than break that command—rather than permit any harm to befall you—Bannor or any Bloodguard would lay down his life in your defense.”

  When Covenant’s face reflected his doubt, the Lord said, “I assure you. Perhaps it would be well for you to question Bannor concerning the Bloodguard. His distrust may not distress you—when you have come to understand it. His people are the Haruchai, who live high in the Westron Mountains beyond the passes which we now name Guards Gap. In the first years of Kevin Loric-son’s High Lordship they came to the Land—came, and remained to make a Vow like that swearing which binds even the gods.” For a moment, he seemed lost in contemplation of the Bloodguard. “They were a hot-blooded people, strong-loined and prolific, bred to tempest and battle—and now made by their pledged loyalty ascetic, womanless and old. I tell you, Thomas Covenant—their devotion has had such unforeseen prices—Such one-mindedness does not come easily to them, and their only reward is the pride of unbroken, pure service. And th
en to learn the bitterness of doubt—” Mhoram sighed again, then smiled diffidently. “Inquire of Bannor. I am too young to tell the tale aright.”

  Too young? Covenant wondered. How old are they? But he did not ask the question; he feared that the story Mhoram could tell would be as seductive as Foamfollower’s tale of the Unhomed. After a moment, he pulled the loose ends of his attention together, and said, “I’ve got to talk to the Council.”

  Mhoram’s gaze met him squarely. “The Lords will meet tomorrow to hear both you and Saltheart Foamfollower. Do you wish to speak now?” The Lord’s gold-flecked eyes seemed to flame with concentration. Unexpectedly he asked, “Are you an enemy, Unbeliever?”

  Covenant winced inwardly. He could feel Mhoram’s scrutiny as if its heat burned his mind. But he was determined to resist. Stiffly he countered, “You’re the seer and oracle. You tell me.”

  “Did Quaan call me that?” Mhoram’s smile was disarming. “Well, I showed prophetic astuteness when I let a mere red moon disquiet me. Perhaps my oracular powers amaze you.” Then he set aside his quiet self-deprecation, and repeated intently, “Are you an enemy?”

  Covenant returned the Lord’s gaze, hoping that his own eyes were hard, uncompromising. I will not—he thought. Am not—“I’m not anything to you by choice. I’ve got—a message for you. One way or another, I’ve been pressured into bringing it here. And some things happened along the way that might interest you.”

  “Tell me,” Mhoram said in soft urgency.

  But his look reminded Covenant of Baradakas—of Atiaran—of the times they had said, You are closed—He could see Mhoram’s health, his dangerous courage, his vital love for the Land. “People keep asking me that,” he murmured. “Can’t you tell?”

  An instant later, he answered himself, Of course not. What do they know about leprosy? Then he grasped the reason behind Mhoram’s question. The Lord wanted to hear him talk, wanted his voice to reveal his truth or falsehood. Mhoram’s ears could discern the honesty or irrectitude of the answer.

  Covenant glanced at the memory of Foul’s message, then turned away in self-defense. “No—I’ll save it for the Council. Once is enough for such things. My tongue’ll turn to sand if I have to say it twice.”

  Mhoram nodded as if in acceptance. But almost immediately he asked, “Does your message account for the befouling of the moon?”

  Instinctively Covenant looked out over his balcony.

  There, sailing tortuously over the horizon like a plague ship, was the bloodstained moon. Its glow rode the plains like an incarnadine phantasm. He could not keep the shudder out of his voice as he replied. “He’s showing off—that’s all. Just showing us what he can do.” Deep in his throat, he cried, Hellfire! Foul! The Wraiths were helpless! What do you do for an encore, rape children?

  “Ah,” Lord Mhoram groaned, “this comes at a bad time.” He stepped away from his seat and pulled a wooden partition shut across the entrance to the balcony. “The Warward numbers less than two thousand. The Bloodguard are only five hundred—a pittance for any task but the defense of Revelstone. And there are only five Lords. Of those, two are old, at the limit of their strength, and none have mastered more than the smallest part of Kevin’s First Ward. We are weaker than any other Earthfriends in all the ages of the Land. Together we can hardly make scrub grass grow in Kurash Plenethor.

  “There have been more,” he explained, returning to his seat, “but in the last generation nearly all the best at the Loresraat have chosen the Rites of Unfettering. I am the first to pass the tests in fifteen years. Alas, it is in my heart that we will want other power now.” He clenched his staff until his knuckles whitened, and for a moment his eyes did not conceal his sense of need.

  Gruffly Covenant said, “Then tell your friends to brace themselves. You’re not going to like what I’ve got to say.”

  But Mhoram relaxed slowly, as if he had not heard Covenant’s warning. One finger at a time, he released his grip until the staff lay untouched in his lap. Then he smiled softly. “Thomas Covenant, I am not altogether reasonless when I assume that you are not an enemy. You have a lillianrill staff and a rhadhamaerl knife—yes, and the staff has seen struggle against a strong foe. And I have already spoken with Saltheart Foamfollower. You have been trusted by others. I do not think you would have won your way here without trust.”

  “Hellfire!” retorted Covenant. “You’ve got it backward.” He threw his words like stones at a false image of himself. “They coerced me into coming. It wasn’t my idea. I haven’t had a choice since this thing started.” With his fingers he touched his chest to remind himself of the one choice he did have.

  “Unwilling,” Mhoram replied gently. “So there is good reason for calling you ‘Unbeliever.’ Well, let it pass. We will hear your tale at the Council tomorrow.

  “Now. I fear I have given your questions little opportunity. But the time for Vespers has come. Will you accompany me? If you wish we will speak along the way.”

  Covenant nodded at once. In spite of his weariness, he was eager for a chance to be active, keep his thoughts busy. The discomfort of being interrogated eras only a little less than the distress of the questions he wanted to ask about white gold. To escape his complicated vulnerabilities, he stood up and said, “Lead the way.”

  The Lord bowed in acknowledgment, and at once preceded Covenant into the corridor outside his room. There they found Bannor. He stood against the wall near the door with his arms folded stolidly across his chest, but he moved to join them as Mhoram and Covenant entered the passageway. On an impulse, Covenant intercepted him. He met Bannor’s gaze, touched the Bloodguard’s chest with one rigid finger, and said, “I don’t trust you either.” Then he turned in angry satisfaction back to the Lord.

  Mhoram paused while Bannor went into Covenant’s room to pick up one of the torches. Then the Bloodguard took a position a step behind Covenant’s left shoulder, and Lord Mhoram led them down the corridor. Soon Covenant was lost again; the complexities of the tower confused him as quickly as a maze. But in a short time they reached a hall which seemed to end in a dead wall of stone. Mhoram touched the stone with an end of his staff, and it swung inward, opening over the courtyard between the tower and the main Keep. From this doorway, a crosswalk stretched over to a buttressed coign.

  Covenant took one look at the yawning gulf of the courtyard, and backed away. “No,” he muttered, “forget it. I’ll just stay here if you don’t mind.” Blood rushed like shame into his face, and a rivulet of sweat ran coldly down his back. “I’m no good at heights.”

  The Lord regarded him curiously for a moment, but did not challenge his reaction. “Very well,” he said simply. “We will go another way.”

  Sweating half in relief, Covenant followed as Mhoram retraced part of their way, then led a complex descent to one of the doors at the base of the tower. There they crossed the courtyard.

  Then for the first time Covenant was in the main body of Revelstone.

  Around him, the Keep was brightly lit with torches and graveling. Its walls were high and broad enough for Giants, and their spaciousness contrasted strongly with the convolution of the tower. In the presence of so much wrought, grand and magisterial granite, such a weight of mountain rock spanning such open, illuminated halls, he felt acutely his own meagerness, his mere frail mortality. Once again, he sensed that the makers of Revelstone had surpassed him.

  But Mhoram and Bannor did not appear meager to him. The Lord strode forward as if these halls were his natural element, as if his humble flesh flourished in the service of this old grandeur. And Bannor’s personal solidity seemed to increase, as if he bore within him something that almost equaled Revelstone’s permanence. Between them, Covenant felt half disincarnate, void of some essential actuality.

  A snarl jumped across his teeth, and his shoulders hunched as he strangled such thoughts. With a grim effort, he forced himself to concentrate on the superficial details around him.

  They turned down a hallwa
y which went straight but for gradual undulations, as if it were carved to suit the grain of the rock—into the heart of the mountain. From it, connecting corridors branched out at various intervals, some cutting directly across between cliff and cliff, and some only joining the central hall with the outer passages. Through these corridors, a steadily growing number of men and women entered the central hall, all, Covenant guessed, going toward Vespers. Some wore the breastplates and headbands of warriors; others, Woodhelvennin and Stonedownor garb with which Covenant was familiar. Several struck him as being related in some way to the lillianrill or rhadhamaerl; but many more seemed to belong to the more prosaic occupations of running a city—cooking, cleaning, building, repairing, harvesting. Scattered through the crowd were a few Bloodguard. Many of the people nodded and beamed respectfully at Lord Mhoram, and he returned salutations in all directions, often hailing his greeters by name. But behind him, Bannor carried the torch and walked as inflexibly as if he were alone in the Keep.

  As the throng thickened, Mhoram moved toward the wall on one side, then stopped at a door. Opening it, he turned to Bannor and said, “I must join the High Lord. Take Thomas Covenant to a place among the people in the sacred enclosure.” To Covenant, he added, “Bannor will bring you to the Close at the proper time tomorrow.” With a salute, he left Covenant with the Bloodguard.

  Now Bannor led Covenant ahead through Revelstone. After some distance, the hall ended, split at right angles to arc left and right around a wide wall, and into this girdling corridor the people poured from all directions. Doors large enough to admit Giants marked the curved wall at regular intervals; through them the people passed briskly, but without confusion or jostling.

  On either side of each door stood a Gravelingas and a Hirebrand; and as Covenant neared one of the doors, he heard the door wardens intoning, “If there is ill in your heart, leave it here. There is no room for it within.” Occasionally one of the people reached out and touched a warder as if handing over a burden.