The door opened as they approached, and closed behind them, though Covenant could not see who or what moved it. It gave into an open-centered, spiral stairwell, up which Bannor climbed steadily until after a hundred feet or more he reached another door. Beyond it, Covenant found himself in a jumbled maze of passageways, stairs, doors that soon confused his sense of direction completely. Bannor led him this way and that at irregular intervals, up and down unmeasured flights of steps, along broad and then narrow corridors, until he feared that he would not be able to make his way out again without a guide. From time to time, he caught glimpses of other people, primarily Bloodguard and warriors, but he did not encounter any of them. At last, however, Bannor stopped in the middle of what appeared to be a blank corridor. With a short gesture, he opened a hidden door. Covenant followed him into a large living chamber with a balcony beyond it.
Bannor waited while Covenant gave the room a brief look, then said, "Call if there is anything you require," and left, pulling the door shut behind him.
For a moment, Covenant continued to glance around him; he took a mental inventory of the furnishings so that he would know where all the dangerous corners, projections, edges were. The room contained a bed, a bath, a table arrayed with food, chairs-one of which was draped with a variety of apparel-and an arras on one wall. But none of these
presented any urgent threat, and shortly his gaze returned to the door.
It had no handle, knob, latch, draw-line-no means by which he could open it.
What the hell-?
He shoved at it with his shoulder, tried to grip it by the edges and pull; he could not budge the heavy stone.
"Bannor!" With a wrench, his mounting fear turned to anger. "Bloody damnation! Bannor. Open this door!"
Almost immediately, the stone swung inward. Bannor stood impassively in the doorway. His flat eyes were expressionless.
"I can't open the door," Covenant snapped. "What is this? Some kind of prison?"
Bannor's shoulders lifted fractionally. "Call it what you choose. You must remain here until the Lords are prepared to send for you."
" `Until the Lords are prepared.' What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Just sit here and think?"
"Eat. Rest. Do whatever you will."
"I'll tell you what I will. I will not stay here and go crazy waiting for the good pleasure of those Lords of yours. I came here all the way from Kevin's Watch to talk to them. I risked my-" With an effort, he caught himself. He could see that his fuming made no impression on the Bloodguard. He gripped his anger with both hands, and said stiffly, "Why am I a prisoner?"
"Message-bearers may be friends or foes," Bannor replied. "Perhaps you are a servant of Corruption. The safety of the Lords is in our care. The Bloodguard will not permit you to endanger them. We will be sure of you before we allow you to move freely."
Hellfire! Covenant swore. Just what I need. The room behind him seemed suddenly full of the dark, vulturine thoughts on which he had striven so hard to turn his back. How could he defend against them if he did not keep moving? But he could not bear to stand where he was with all his fears exposed to Bannor's dispassionate scrutiny. He forced himself to turn around. "Tell them I don't like to wait." Trem
bling, he moved to the table and picked up a stoneware flask of springwine.
When he heard the door close, he took a long draft like a gesture of defiance. Then, with his teeth clenched on the fine beery flavor of the springwine, he looked around the room again, glared about him as if he were daring dark specters to come out of hiding and attack.
This time, the arras caught his attention. It was a thick, varicolored weaving, dominated by stark reds and sky blues, and after a moment's incomprehension he realized that it depicted the legend of Berek Halfhand.
Prominent in the center stood the figure of Berek in a stylized stance which combined striving and beatitude. And around this foreground were worked scenes encapsulating the Lord-Fatherer's history-his pure loyalty to his Queen, the King's greedy pursuit of power, the Queen's repudiation of her husband, Berek's exertions in the war, the cleaving of his hand, his despair on Mount Thunder, the victory of the Fire-Lions. The effect of the whole was one of salvation, of redemption purchased on the very brink of ruin by rectitude-as if the Earth itself had intervened, could be trusted to intervene, to right the moral imbalance of the war.
Oh, bloody hell! Covenant groaned. Do I have to put up with this?
Clutching the stoneware flask as if it were the only solid thing in the room, he went toward the balcony.
He stopped in the entryway, braced himself against the stone. Beyond the railing of the balcony was a fall of three or four hundred feet to the foothills. He did not dare step out to the railing; already a premonition of giddiness gnawed like nausea in his guts. But he made himself look outward long enough to identify his surroundings.
The balcony was in the eastern face of the tower, overlooking a broad reach of plains. The late afternoon sun cast the shadow of the promontory eastward like an aegis, and in the subdued light beyond the shadow the plains appeared various and colorful.
Bluish grasslands and plowed brown fields and newgreen crops intervaled each other into the distance, and between them sun-silvered threads of streams ran east and south; the clustered spots of villages spread a frail web of habitation over the fields; purple heather and gray bracken lay in broadening swaths toward the north. To his right, Covenant could see far away the White River winding in the direction of Trothgard.
The sight reminded him of how he had come to this place-of Foamfollower, Atiaran, Wraiths, Baradakas, a murdered Waynhim- A vertigo of memories gyred up out of the foothills at him. Atiaran had blamed him for the slaughter of the Wraiths. And yet she had forsworn her own just desire for retribution, her just rage. He had done her so much harm. He recoiled back into the chamber, stumbled to sit down at the table. His hands shook so badly that he could not drink from the flask. He set it down, clenched both fists, and pressed his knuckles against the hard ring hidden over his heart.
I will not think about it.
A scowl like a contortion of the skull gripped his forehead.
I am not Berek.
He locked himself there until the sound of dangerous wings began to recede, and the giddy pain in his stomach eased. Then he unclawed his stiff fingers. Ignoring their impossible sensitivity, he started to eat.
On the table he found a variety of cold meats, cheeses, and fruits, with plenty of brown bread. He ate, deliberately, woodenly, like a puppet acting out the commands of his will, until he was no longer hungry. Then he stripped off his clothes and bathed, scrubbing himself thoroughly and scrutinizing his body to be sure he had no hidden wounds. He sorted through the clothing provided for him, finally donned a pale blue robe which he could tie closed securely to conceal his ring. Using Atiaran's knife, he shaved meticulously. Then, with the same wooden deliberateness, he washed his own clothes in the bath and hung them on chair backs to dry. All the time, his thoughts ran to the rhythm of,
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 ar
m 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 rhadhamaert 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 goldthat 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 emprisoned. 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-Joined 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 then 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?"
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, Hellfirel 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.
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